


Stimulus

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-24
Updated: 2007-10-24
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Life hurts.  Sex soothes.  Love heals.





	Stimulus

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Stimulus

## Stimulus

### by SandS

##### [Story Headers]

  


Title: Stimulus 

Author: SandS 

Pairing: M/K 

Rating: NC-17 

Keywords: Body piercings, tattoos, Glory Holing...just your average Mulder/Krycek. Alternating POV, Krycek/first person present tense, Mulder/third person past tense. Until it gets measly. 

Spoilers: This occurs post-Redux. 

Summary: Life hurts. Sex soothes. Love heals. 

Date of First Posting: 10/24/07 

Disclaimer: So, sometimes when I borrow things...I just don't give them back. This is like that. 

.......... 

I thought I was far enough away that the blood wouldn't splatter me. I'm usually a pretty good judge of these things. I learned with Bill Mulder. I was so new to it then. I didn't take into account his close proximity, so when his blood sprayed my face and neck, I almost forgot to crawl out the window I was so shocked. 

Nothing shocks me anymore. 

I'm mildly annoyed and surprised that there's blood on my clothes, but hey. Some bleed a lot. Enthusiastically, it would appear. 

I hate this part. The let down. That this is all there is. Just a body on the floor and my gun smoking in aftermath. Unsatisfying. 

They told me there was nothing like it. Better than orgasm. Better than crisp, green American money. They told me it was justified. I didn't believe a word of it, of course. But a little part of me had hoped that it would suit me. That I'd be good at it, at least, and avoid throwing up once it was over. 

And I am. Good at it. I've never thrown up. Murder doesn't make me sick. But neither does it elate me. I'd wonder if I'm a sociopath, but I've read Mulder's profile on me, and he says I'm not, so I think I'm out of the woods on that one. 

Maybe I'm just...numb. 

I do feel things, though. 

I make sure that I do. I give myself pain and I give myself pleasure. Sometimes just to make sure they're still in me. That I haven't run out of either or both. Sometimes they come both at once. That's the best. That's when I know I'm more alive than any of them. 

I leave the crime scene. It makes me almost laugh that it's going to be considered a crime. The guy ran a clinic that conducted experiments on hybrid children. I couldn't give that much pain to another person if I tried. Still, it didn't make me happy to kill him. 

Lemon drops. They make me happy. Sucking the sweet crystals off and letting the hard candy scrape the roof of my mouth raw before the sugar hits my blood stream... Nothing like it. I dig a couple out of the stash I keep nestled in the ashtray of my car and pop them into my mouth, swirling them around. Saliva rushes in at the intense flavor and I roll the candies on my tongue while they melt. 

My car stereo makes me happy. I turn it up now, switching tracks on the CD so that Gravity Kills assaults my ears. 

Pleasure isn't hard to come by. 

No, I'm not numb. 

But I guess I'm not sensitive either. At least to certain stimuli. Pulling a trigger...ejecting a bullet through the air and erupting someone's flesh with it. Taking a human life... 

Not that I'm gonna go postal and shoot up a high school or something like a deranged janitor or some poor nerd coked on Prozac or Ritalin with a hard-on for making his bullies pay. I don't go in for that shit. Waste of time and bullets when there are so many bigger scores out there just begging to be put down. 

Like that guy back there. Neo-Mengela. Talk about death wish. Torturing little kids? A real prince. I don't mind ridding the world of the likes of him. My dealings are with monsters. And I don't lose sleep over it. 

I drive to the motel for a quick shower. I'd just go home, but I need a little breathing room between me and the corpse. Different motel every assasination. I could be a travel agent. This one gets three stars. It'd have four if it got HBO. And it would have rated a measly one and a half if not for the shower. Water pressure is very important to me. This one's good. It beats away the blood, the sweat, the smell of some dead guy's disinfected office. It hits my skin and massages the muscles underneath. I love the way it feels like needles. Like acupuncture or a hard, sleet rain. Except hot. Very hot. Lover hot. Like sin. 

As I dry myself and change clothes, I consider sleeping in this motel room. My old clothes are going into a dumpster in a few minutes. It's just a little blood, and I'd like to burn the fuckers, but that'd be overkill. An indulgence that might cost me my anonymity. But cleaning them is out of the question. Excepting my jacket, I never keep anything I've worn to take out a hit. Seems like bad taste. 

So I finish dressing, re-arm myself, and pack up. I won't stay here. But I don't want to go home. I'm not done with this day. If I sleep now, I'll just toss and turn, wondering if tonight's the night I lose feeling. 

I need a catalyst. For pain...for pleasure.... I'm not sure, and I don't care. I head out, disappearing my soiled clothes and becoming just a pair of tail lights in the darkness. 

......... 

She still looks pale, he thought. Still gaunt. 

It was still his fault. 

"Aren't you going home?" she asked. 

She draped her coat around her shoulders...disappearing under it like a magic trick. She hadn't gained any weight yet. It was a horrible thing to look at her. Her pants were held up only with stylish, Anne Taylor belts she'd recently bought herself. On-line, he knew. She didn't leave the house much now. Her hair was coarse and her eyes dim. Her breasts had shrunk down as well, he'd noticed, until she looked less like a woman and more like a girl. 

"Mulder?" 

He looked up, his fingers gripping the pencil dangerously. It felt brittle in his hand, ready to break. 

"Not yet," he told her. "You go on." He almost told her to get some rest, but the look of prideful hurt that took over her face the last time was enough to stop him. "Have a good night," he said instead. 

She frowned at him...at her watch...back at him. "All right, but if I come back in the morning to find you haven't left, I'm having you written up for..." 

He smirked at her tiredly. "Insomnia?" he supplied helpfully. 

She sighed, looking exhausted as well. "Good night, Mulder," she said, turning. 

He let her go without another word. 

He knew she barely slept now, too. Because of the thing in her neck. Not knowing. She didn't tell him about her own nightmares, but he knew she had them. And that she hid them from him. Not because she didn't trust him to understand. But because she knew his guilt. 

It had stung. Their last conversation about her cancer. She spoke about giving it meaning even while she knew good and well why she had it. Knowing it was for Mulder. To make him believe. Ironic. 

Mulder looked down at the sheet of paper on his desk. It was covered with his drawings. It felt like all he had. All those files across the room...just scrap paper, not worth the ink wasted printing them out. 

Mulder leaned back, feeling his bones ache. It hadn't been too long ago that he'd wanted to eat his gun. He still felt it, hard and nonjudgmental against his thigh. He felt the silence around him in the cocoon of his basement. 

All. His. Fucking. Fault. 

And the funny thing was...it was starting not to hurt. 

It was kind of like Samantha. A sharp blade of pain for a few years. Then the dull throb for a while. And then one day...he'd realized he felt nothing. She was gone, and so was he. He kept looking. And looking. And looking. And when he thought he found her, the hurt bloomed once again so strong and brilliant that he could hardly see and he felt relief flood him like intoxication. Twice, his body had reinvested. Once, he'd given her back for Scully. And this last time... 

He was sick of the see-saw. 

He eyed the door, then the clock. It was a little after eight. He got up and got his jacket, his gaze catching on the paper with his doodles on the desk. He stared down at it for a minute. Then he picked it up, crumpled it, tossed it into the trash can and left. 

......... 

If I'd wanted to dance I would have gone somewhere else. Still, he's trying to rub himself against my hip in a parody of a Britney Spears video. 

"No thanks," I growl, eyes unblinking. 

He smiles a little drunkenly, but at my continued stare, he frowns, then pouts, but then finally nods and dances away. 

I like this place for the smoke. I quit a long time ago, and it's one of the only things I can stand about Spender. I cream for the secondhand. Here, it's thick as ash. One of the few places that hasn't gone California and banned the shit like it's fucking heroin or something. I hate California. Well, L.A. Smog and sun and that insulated arrogance everybody has. All the mystery is gone there. Plus, they just have no idea what's going on. Not like here. Where we invent it and a year later they make it into a summer blockbuster starring a rapper and the next geezer they want to resurrect. 

I drink tequila. Top shelf. Twelve dollars a shot. It's sweeter than the rest. Like doing a rim job on some honeyed virgin whose ass is so tight it's like cracking a safe. Little tongue, prod of the pinkie finger, gallon of lube and you're in. And that sigh... Pain and pleasure. My favorite. 

Even better when I'm the one taking it up the ass. Although my days of sighs and needing finger fucks are dearly departed. 

I've had about three shots now. I'm hot, warmed from the inside. Veins all open and flowing and singing. I'm not drunk. Just a little loose. Just this side of happy. 

"Have another?" the bartender asks. 

I shake my head no. I want something else now. Some new vice. Some new way to chase away the pins and needles, to push my limbs into fire, that searing when the blood comes back and rushes just under the skin. 

I push my way through the crowd, having tipped two dollars a drink. I'd like to do more but I don't want to be the guy the bartender remembers when he goes home tonight. Oh yeah, that good tipper with the one arm. It's bad enough I have to keep my jacket on when it's so hot in here. But it's better than the shiny plastic catching the flashing light and every queen's eye. 

I'm in no hurry. Not on the outside. And on the inside, I tamp it down. I move around the dancefloor rather than through it. It's like when the bathtub is draining. Something gets caught in the funnel, it rarely gets out. I stay on the fringe, avoiding the pull of all those bodies doing all those naughty things. 

Not naughty enough. 

I wander back toward the restrooms, and then past them down the hall. The music fades to little more than a driving bassline. Then it mutes, gagged, as I walk through the door at the end of the hall and let it shut behind me. 

Darker here. This back room. Mood-lit blue, the mainroom's noise muffled as though we here are womb-held. Everything's a little slower, too. Drugged out. And there _are_ the stoners. The ones who come back for that particular slice of heaven. It's not why I'm here, but I don't condemn their weakness. Mine is as pervasive and reckless. 

The stalls are at the very, very back. It's like walking through the inferno, through all the differing layers of hell. Except the only fire is what you're shooting or fucking and that's a lot more like nirvana than damnation. 

Still, there's a certain stigma about the stalls. I don't know if we're considered crazy or brave. Revered or reviled. I just know we're relegated to the back. And nobody looks up. It's part of the game. A necessary part. We'd look ashamed to the untrained eye. 

On this side, my side, the stalls declare themselves `Sucker.' The ones we can't see from here proudly proclaim `Cock.' It's cute. It always makes me want to laugh just a little. 

There are two doors closed and two open. I pick the open door, three down, the one I prefer, and step inside. It's like crossing into another dimension. It gets my cock hard all by itself. Just shutting that door behind me. 

Here it is. 

The very beginnings of pleasure. 

I strip the jacket off, relieved to have some air on my skin. There are hooks, considerately provided, and I hang the leather off one of them. 

I stand in the middle of the tiny room for a moment. I drop my eyes to the hole in the wall at hip-height. I see shadows dancing on the other side. 

My cock twitches in anticipation. My mouth waters. I itch for this. 

My lips part, my every nerve blazing ready. But first I just trace the outline of my erection through the warm denim. If I concentrate, I think I can imagine him breathing on the other side of the wall. I squeeze my cock and balls and then start to unbutton my jeans. 

I leave them open, allowing my cock to breathe as I strip off my shirt, take off my boots and socks. Then I pull down jeans and underwear, the ring through the tip of my dick brushing the fabric and sending resonate waves of lust down the length and into my throbbing balls. 

I strip naked and, as the last barrier drops away, I watch the cock ease past the hole. 

Glory indeed. 

I drop to my knees. 

........... 

The alarm clock next to the fishtank went off and Mulder swatted at it, pulling the throw pillow from beneath his head and covering his ear with a moan. 

"Nooo..." he groaned even as the sound was abruptly silenced. 

Since when did he start hating the mornings? 

Since he started drinking gin until three am and passing out during Married With Children marathons. He groaned again. 

Time to get ready for work. 

Scully would know he'd gone on another binge. He looked at himself in the mirror...at the red lining his eyes and the haggard beginnings of beard. He was pretty sure she knew what he was doing. That some nights were harder than others. That the alcohol was inherited from his dad. That he hated himself for succumbing. 

She never said much. But she brought him black coffee and sometimes aspirin. And she had trouble meeting his eyes. 

What a fuckin' mess. 

He showered, shaved, and went to work like he still loved it. 

Scully, at least, was more chipper. Though she was still dressing in the black pants-suits and spraying her hair into a severely perfect, curled-under helmet, the tame style counteracting the color. 

"Morning," she sighed, sitting across from his desk. "Mulder?" 

He smiled as much as he could and told her about a newspaper article that he'd been reading. Unexplained death. Probably not paranormal. He wasn't going to get his hopes up. 

When he paused in his story, she took a breath, compressed her lips, and then breathed out, too brightly, "Coffee?" 

... 

He was home again. Going through his mail. 

Is this what his life was? he wondered. Bills and ads and unwanted catalogues? Cancer and lies and gin-drunk nights? 

He flipped through letters from Unicef, his electric bill, finally coming to a hot pink flyer underneath everything else. He was about to put it aside unread, when the name emblazoned on it caught his eye. 

Stimulus, it said in sleek, black lettering. Then it advertized dollar kamakazis on Fridays and the best wet jock contest in town on Saturdays before Therapy. 

Mulder stared at the flyer for a long time. It was unremarkable really. Just trash waiting to happen. More scrap paper. Except for one thing. 

Mulder blinked. He'd been there. Years ago, but he remembered it as if no time had passed. It was something he could hardly forget. It was that in-between time. She was gone. And he was alone. The time when he thought he'd rather die than keep going. He'd gone a little crazy. He knew that. People's tongues were wagging like never before. The ex-Mrs. Spooky had been `abducted' and... 

The new one... 

So Mulder had fucked a vampire. Seemed like a good idea at the time. He'd been so drugged with grief. 

It seemed he was practically indestructible. That God, if It existed, wanted to keep him around for some more torture without the release and relief of death. She hadn't killed him and had, in fact, died herself. 

Finally, realizing suicide wasn't an option, Mulder had just sought oblivion any way he could get it. 

He continued to look down at the flyer in his hand. Stimulus. He hadn't thought it was possible before, but... He'd gone back time and again, seeking one drug after the other. First, the seduction of a drink or two, then... The lure of the back room. It wasn't too long before she was returned and he quit going. And he hadn't thought of it a lot after that, really. It popped up in a couple of dreams. It crept into his fantasies. But he'd pretty much relagated it to that dark time in his life and left it behind. 

Yet here it was back, its timing so eloquent and incoincidental. 

Mulder tore his eyes away and swallowed hard. He stared at the television now, black and innocuous. He never did turn it on. 

.......... 

I'm ready to move on now. I like D.C., but I need to move. Maybe try out a different country for a while. I'd even go back to Russia at this point. Lot of loose ends there that need tying up. Plus, I'd like to get my hand on their vaccine. 

But I'm contracted to stay here for now. As it turns out, the British guy is having serious reservations about the group. He contacted me after he found out I hired Peskov. Guess he wasn't holding any grudges about his lover. He said it'd be worth my time in green, and it has been. I had no idea taking down Consortium research facilities could be so lucrative. 

But I need a fix of a different kind. 

While I'm stuck here, I might as well show myself a good time. Like I said, pleasure's not all that hard to come by. If you know the rules. Don't get caught. Don't get lost in it. And don't let your guard down. 

Everybody has something they do. At least all of us numb ones. We can't handle it vanilla like everybody else. We need the danger and the pain and the rush. I'd fuck skydiving if I had the time to charter a plane. 

After you get your arm cut off...there's just not a lot more that scares you. 

And truthfully, going to glory-hole at Stimulus isn't really all that freaky in the least. Not compared to almost being car-bombed or all the other shit I've done or had happen to me in my life. In fact, I'd almost equate it with sitting on the couch with a good book for most people. The only thing risky about it would be the fact that the men there rarely use protection. But after the oil, I'm immune to practically everything. I don't even get colds anymore. I've got nothing to worry about no matter how much cum I swallow. Everybody else who does it like that? I don't have time to shed a tear for their ignorance. And if it's a death wish, who am I to point a finger? I facilitate that transition for a lot of people. If these guys wanted to suck a cock with a condom on it, they're not too terribly hard to find in this day and age. It's their choice, and I don't give a fuck. 

I take particular time with the piercings before I dress tonight. I'm home now, standing in the relative comfort of my own bathroom. I'm naked and in front of a full length mirror. You probably think I'm narcissistic. I have the right, I think. I've worked hard on my body since I lost the arm. 

Which brings me to the nipples. 

I finger them first. I took the old hoops out and my chest looks foreign without them. I've gotten very used to seeing the metal adornments every time I strip to shower...feeling them touch my clothes. I pinch my nipples now, one at a time, my stump twitching to help. I get them rosy and hard. Then I insert new hoops, small and silver. They're just a little heavier than the normal ones and the pull is erotic rather than distinctly painful. 

The other ring I change is the one I put through my cock. I had the titanium one in for a few weeks, but I want something weightier tonight, I decide, so I unfasten this one and slowly drag it from its two holes. I watch myself extract it in the mirror, then turn to the counter and the box with all my body jewelry in it. I rifle through the selections until I come up with the one I want. It's a stainless steel circular barbell, wide and thick to prevent tearing. 

I turn back to the mirror and alternately look into it and down at my cock as I slide the cool metal through the hole in my glans, working it through the flesh and out my urethra. It takes some dexterity to screw the ball into place, completing the circle, but I've had lots of practice and now I even prolong it because every little tug or slide of it inside my cock gets me turned on. 

Once I get it fastened, I hold my cock in my hand, running my thumb over the ring and watching in the mirror as I start to go erect from my own touch. I like watching in the mirror. It's the best way to see the tattoo. 

Oh, yeah. I tattooed my cock. It's on the underside, best visible when I'm hard enough for my shaft to strain against my belly. My opinion is that if you don't get me that hot, you don't deserve to see it. 

It's a dagger. It has a pitch black hilt and a silver blade that glints near the tip. It runs the entire length of my cock, the point of the blade coming up just under my cockhead. 

I've had quite a few lovers shy from it. It's not for everyone. I guess they think I'm gonna slit their throats when we're done fucking. That or they think the actual art can cut them. I find it amusing. And erotic. Their fear. Some I've been able to talk into kissing it, or handling it. Or if they can't handle touching it, they can just fuck me and I'll jerk the damned thing off. I like touching it anyway. Nobody gives me a more satisfying orgasm after all. 

Some run scared and some stay and brave it. Sometimes, a guy will really get off on it. It's rare, but always a true pleasure. 

Pleasure. It's my goal tonight. 

I haven't been back to Stimulus for a few days. Too busy making runs for the Brit. It's an okay job. The lines of black and white are more clearly drawn than a lot of them. I don't like seeing the damned kids, but if I'm gonna rescue the little fuckers, I have to see what's happening to them. 

It's time for a break. Today's runt farm was bile-inducing even for me. I look forward to torching it tomorrow. After sending the little lab rats off with the Brit's doctors. Actually, I try not to think of them as rats. I'll form a kinship. And that's very, very bad. 

I dress pretty plainly. White T, black jeans. It's all coming off in that room anyway. 

I take one more look into the mirror, smiling a little coyly at myself and then opening my mouth and extending my tongue. The two silver studs glint wetly there side by side, just waiting to brush against a hard cock. I waggle my tongue suggestively at myself, chuckling, and then turn to leave. 

I drive there fast, feeling a kind of pressure...like I don't want to be late. It's ridiculous. I've got til last call in three hours to come. But still...I press the pedal down and go faster than a wanted felon should. 

The place is really packed when I get there. It's Friday night I guess. Bodies everywhere. 

I used to play this game where I'd pick one and decide that was the one I'd be sucking later. Some nights I'd go ahead and spot four or five, planning to just settle into my room and have at it until my knees couldn't take it anymore. I say knees rather than mouth because I never really seem to get tired of giving head. I think I'm a little bit addicted to the scream of release from the other side of the wall. A pounding fist is always good, too. It's become a game. How hard can I make them come? I've managed to make a good many actually pass out. 

I'm smiling now, remembering. I'm near that pleasure point where I might just be having a tiny bit of what most people call fun. One more shot and I'm heading back. Threading my way through...slithering along the sidelines, nobody knowing I might be the one to blow their minds tonight. 

.......... 

Mulder parked his car and sat in it for about ten minutes, leaving the engine running. He could hear the music from inside. He closed his eyes. He was tired of seeing Scully behind his lids. He was sick of being misled. There was nothing misleading about this place. And even though the identity of his partner for the evening would be a secret, it seemed more honest than any other kind of sex he could have. Even masturbation, where he knew his own practiced moves too well and trying to trick his body into going along with the scenario was getting harder and harder. 

He cut the engine, stepped out of the car, and went inside. 

He was propositioned on his way to one of their three bars. 

"Hey gorgeous. Wanna dance?" said a muscular Latino man with smooth skin. 

"No thanks," Mulder tried, yelling over the music. 

"You sure?" asked the man, smiling at him. "You got a body for dancin'." 

Mulder snorted quietly. "That's okay," he insisted, moving away. If the guy only knew his version of dancing. He'd be barking up another tree and fast. 

At the bar, Mulder ordered a bourbon and drank it quickly. He kept his eyes on the bar and imagined the alcohol flooding his system, rocketing up to his head upon finding his nearly empty stomach. 

He wasn't going to drink a lot. He just wanted the buzz. Just something to dull the guilt and shattered illusions for a while. He didn't want to drown like he did at home. He wanted to float. 

It wasn't long before he started to itch. It felt like a little fire under his skin. Something he couldn't get to by himself. It tickled up his spine and under the hair at the nape of his neck, dancing over his scalp. 

He gulped down his apprehension and got up from the bar. 

The walk back to the stalls seemed shorter than he remembered. It had always felt like it would take forever and he'd have time to talk himself out of it by the time he'd cleared the dance floor. 

He never did, though. Talk himself out of it. Even that first time when he'd been close to terrified. He'd ended up in the room, sticking his cock through that hole and into somebody's waiting, wide open mouth. 

It had been hell. And it had been heaven. 

And he was about to do it again. After all these years. 

He found the doors that had the word `Cock' painted across them, red and garish. All the doors were shut. All of them occupied. Mulder shuffled from foot to foot, feeling foolish and anxious. Maybe he shouldn't have come. Then a man moaned loudly from the third stall. 

It was a luscious, throaty sound that held a note of recklessness, something that seemed maybe more animal than human. Something trembling on the edge of control. There were slurping sounds coming muted from the other stalls and a few grunts and thumps. 

But then that third stall erupted again. 

"AhhhGOD!" Then, a little quieter, "Please..." 

Mulder licked his lips and moved toward that door a little. Another loud wail pierced the room and then some desperate, rhythmic banging noises. 

"Oh. God. Oh. God. Ooohhhhh!!!!" as the man finally came. 

Somewhere across the room where two men were fucking slowly, just getting started, there came a whistle of appreciation. 

Mulder swallowed thickly, a feeling in his stomach that closely resembled waiting to get on a roller coaster. 

He wanted this stall. He wanted to lose it like that. Wanted whoever was on the other side. He hoped they planned to stay. 

Of course, he couldn't allow himself to roar in that manner. He'd never give that much of himself away or endanger his own anonymity to that extent. But he wanted to feel it. He wanted to have to stifle that raw emotion and intensity of physical release. It had been so long. 

The door suddenly swung open and a sweaty, shirtless, panting beauty emerged. Mulder tried to duck his head, but the man caught his eye and smirked lazily. 

"Damn..." he drawled slowly, shaking his head. Then he kept walking, passing Mulder and sauntering away. 

Mulder gulped, feeling the moment stretch. Then he stepped inside. 

The hole was only big enough for an erect cock to have room without touching the padded circle cut away from the wood. The other side was dark and Mulder decided his partner for the next few minutes had the right idea, so he doused his own light, throwing the little stall into a dark only lit by the blue mood lighting behind him in the adjoining room. Just enough to find the glory hole. 

Mulder took a steadying breath and began to undo his pants. 

He moved in closer, reaching into his underwear and finding his cock. He thought maybe he heard breathing from the other side of the wall. Yes. Just a little. Ragged breathing. Quiet. 

Mulder stroked his cock and brought it out, walking forward until he could press himself against the wall. Then he aimed his cock, letting it brush the soft padding before he guided it through the hole. 

He was surprised to have to wait a moment. Before, he remembered being instantly engulfed and sucked. He let go of his twitching erection and splayed his second hand on the wall next to his head, waiting. 

Then he felt...warm breath. Just that. He bucked involuntarily toward the ghost caress. Leaning his forehead against the cool wood, Mulder waited again, breathing shudderingly, edging his feet closer to the wall. 

A couple of painful seconds later, Mulder felt not a mouth, but a hand, taking his cock gently on top of the palm...weighing him. Mulder felt his cock bob again, slapping the hand that held him. He compressed his lips and suppressed a whimper. 

The hand folded around in a confident fist and held his shaft. 

It was unbearably erotic. Not knowing when the next touch would come and what it would be. Mulder found himself sweating and holding his breath. 

The hand squeezed and he bit down hard on his lip. He turned his head, pressing his cheek to the wall. The hand slid up to where the wall separated them. It tugged a little once...hard and insistent. Telling him. 

Mulder took his balls in his hand and worked them through the hole, too, moving in even closer once they were through. His pulse was pounding like a tribal drum. 

The hand found his testicles and rolled them, gently squeezing for a moment, and Mulder almost sighed. When the hand tugged at them urgently, he banged his head against the wall to keep from crying out in pleasure. 

Then he felt the tip of his engorged cock touch something hard and smooth... Teeth. A smile. His slit dragged across a wide, toothy smile, guided by the hand that now controlled him from the base of his cock. 

The man on the other side of the wall was completely silent, but Mulder got the picture loud and clear: his partner was pleased. With Mulder or with his cock or both was unknown. But Mulder found himself licking his lips in anticipation, blinking and sighing quietly with the promise of it. 

He hardly had time to have a thought about how surreally wonderful this was because the teeth opened and he was led into the hottest mouth he'd ever not allowed himself to imagine. 

Mulder's hands made fists and he gritted his teeth against the near pain of this paradise. 

Things couldn't possibly get any better, but... 

The lips closed tight around the base of his cock, the throat opening just enough to snugly hold his cockhead while the tongue pressed to the underside of his cock and began to drag up. 

**FUCK!**

Not just tongue! Hard little balls of...metal? Piercings. Not one, but two. 

**GOD!**

Slick with spit, the studs dragged along his cock, digging in more the harder the hot mouth sucked. 

Mulder's knees started to buckle and the hand shot out, grasping his balls in a firm, warning grip. Mulder opened his mouth on a silent groan of tortured ecstasy. The mouth sucked him to right under his glans and then the studs embedded in the tongue flicked at him mercilessly. 

Mulder's fist pounded the wall. Fury, blinding joy...there was no name for it. This wasn't a blowjob. This was an oral execution. His cock was drawn into the cavern of the mouth again, back to where mouth squeezed into throat. His partner turned his head a little and fit his face into Mulder's balls even tighter, closer. 

"Ffff..." Mulder started to curse, rolling his head on the wood. 

Then he felt his balls being stuffed back through the hole. He opened his eyes and lifted his head in confusion. He began to pull back but the hand made a secure, unyielding fist around his girth, holding him in place. Then the mouth...his mouth...slid back and forth slowly, convincing his cock to stay...that this wasn't over. Just changing. The dual suction and liquid flame of the metal-enhanced tongue got a rhythm going on his hard-on that had Mulder wanting to sob with relief and the sensuous power of his frustration. 

And he wanted to nail this perfect mouth. 

Mulder realized that with his balls back on this side of the wall he had greater mobility. He could fuck this heaven if he wanted to. 

Stifling another delicious groan, Mulder pulled back a little and then pushed forward into the waiting heat until he felt the resistence of the throat. He threw his head back and breathed out what would have been a scream. His nails raked the wall and he almost lost his balance. So he leaned his head against the wall again with a thunk, still deep inside the stranger's mouth, the tongue moving against him, sucking and coaxing him to give more. 

He gritted his teeth again and pulled back, feeling the studs trace his cock with dispassionate efficiency. Then the lips, softer than they should be, kissed at the head in seeming self-indulgence before Mulder thrust forward and buried his cock in wet fire again. 

Again and again, Mulder felt the metal balls dig into his cock, tracing the veins unerringly, slipping down his length like twin bullets of flame. And over and over the mouth sucked him, indulged him, laved him wet and dripping, let him push up until his balls were pressed to the wall. He'd never fucking felt this good in his life. 

He was working himself slowly, unwilling to bruise this man, to take what was offered so graciously in a brutal show of his loss of control. And his partner went with his pace, moving against him unhurriedly, seemingly unable to tire. Mulder couldn't hold his orgasm off forever, though. He felt it building in his balls like an inevitable storm, about to overthrow his desire to keep going, to not let this end. 

He hit his head on the wall again and the lips enclosed his cockhead once more in a gentle, understanding kiss. Mulder screwed his eyes shut and drove forward, opening the man's mouth and embedding his cock deep. He took several more harder thrusts, unable to control the urge to push forward to release. The mouth and throat opened for him, letting him batter at the soft, welcoming flesh until Mulder finally held his breath, dizzy with need, and exploded his cum into the sucking warmth. 

He panted as jets of cum spurted out of him, sucked down by his also-silent partner. He thrust in and out of the mouth while he came, shaking and riding the crest of his shattering climax. 

And then he was finished, sagging against the wall as the mouth on the other side licked him clean. The hand came up and held his length once more as the tongue bathed him. Mulder hissed once as the studs flicked lightly over his deflating cock. 

The last thing he felt was a swollen-lipped, farewell kiss at the very tip of his cock. And then hand and mouth withdrew and Mulder did as well, turning to lean his back against the wall as he slid down into a useless heap in the dark. 

.......... 

I take one last look at the rows of empty white beds, light the match, and throw it down. 

The outside is cool and I pretend I can actually hear the fire coiling behind me like a tendriled beast, devouring itself from the inside. 

I dunno. Maybe it was the Marilyn Manson I listened to on the way here. I'm feeling fatalistic and depraved. Hey, maybe I can even blame the poor guy. 

I'm grinning a little as the first explosion hits, racing up my back, hot like death. I resist the urge to duck and run. I'm a little more than alive tonight. More than surviving. 

I can still taste that guy's cum. 

I meet with the Englishman. Only two more hits he says. He's pleased with my work. I'm pleased he pays me with clean money. We part ways with plans to take a clinic in West Virginia in two weeks. 

I pick up some Mexican food on the way home. The number five at En Fuego, a chili rellano and two cheese enchiladas with a large horchata. I'm ravenous. 

I eat sitting on the floor with my back against the couch and the open styrofoam container on the coffee table while I watch the evening news. I'm the headliner. Well, not me personally. I am decent at what I do after all. But the flames are a delight to behold. The roof caving in spectacularly is a bonus and I applaude channel four's camera guy for getting that one. My mouth drips red sauce and I lick it away, digging an overly salty chip into my doctored guacamole. (Extra lime juice and pico.) 

Still, the fire's only on the screen for so long, and then they're off on some pansy-ass story about kindergarteners from the inner city visiting the old folks' home and helping them put their dentures in or something. 

My dinner is done, half an enchilada that I can't force my stomach to want anymore cooling in an ocean of left-over sauce. 

I drink down my horchata and belch. Then my eyes go out of focus as I watch the news anchors banter. They fade to colored pixels, which is what they really are, as I relive...him. 

I don't know what it was about that guy... Maybe it was me, just really good and warmed up by the other two. I was on my game. But no. It wasn't just that. He was different. 

It wasn't the size of his cock or the shape or anything like that. Although, he seemed to fit in my mouth to a degree of perfection I've never experienced before. 

I could just tell I had him right away. There was an immediate knowledge for me that this was going to be the blow of my life. And I think he might have felt it, too. I just had to breathe on him and he was quivering. 

But he never made a fucking sound. Even when he came. I mean, sure he pounded on the wall with his head, fists, body as I urged his cock to orgasm. And there was a gasp or two. But nothing like what I'm used to. No grunting, moaning, howling, screaming. I would have hated that except that it...seemed so him. 

I know that sounds stupid. All I really know of him is his erect cock and how much cum he shoots. Maybe it was the way he fucked me when I asked him to. And I did ask. I have a way of letting the men on the other side know what's required of them, if anything. I wanted to know how he fucked. 

Not even wanted. Had to. Isn't that insane? 

It wasn't that he was gentle, even though he sort of was. It wasn't that he was careful not to hurt me. I don't give a shit. As you've probably figured out, pain is pleasure to me. So it should have been unsatisfying on my end. 

Only it wasn't. It so wasn't. Hell, I could have come easy. If I'd remembered to touch myself. 

He made me forget everything but him. And maybe that's it. When he thrust his cock between my lips and screwed my face, it was the most passionate thing I've ever felt. Passionate? It's too romantic a word. It was... He just... Poured himself into me. Like we'd formed some sort of perverse relationship through that wall. I wasn't a mouth. I was his lover. He loved my mouth. 

I chuff a short laugh to myself. 

Jesus, what a freak. 

I shake my head and get up, deciding I'll just go shower off the smell of burnt secrets and turn my brain onto the idea of some well-deserved sleep. 

But damned if I don't beat off in the shower first. 

.......... 

"It's the same guy," Mulder told the detective on the scene. 

"But the site in Pennsylvania was rigged with a fertilizer-based explosive," Detective Rousseau argued, planting his hands on his hips. "This one appears to have been started with the use of an accelerant, but we've yet to find an explosive device of the kind used in Pittsburg." 

Mulder nodded, unperturbed. "It's different, but I think the fact that they're both fertility clinics is enough of a link." He nodded to the cops behind Rousseau. "If you turn up anything new, I'd appreciate a call." Mulder handed over his card and then looked at Scully as they turned and walked away. 

"Did you get a sample of the stuff?" he asked her. 

"Yes," she sighed, looking tired and frowning. "I'll take a look at it in the lab tonight." 

"Why don't you just drop it off with Agent Dreifus? I think she's pretty reliable," Mulder suggested as they reached the car and he unlocked her side. 

Scully gave him a wary look. "I'd like to analyze it myself, Mulder. And besides, Agent Dreifus won't be there this late and we need to know as soon as possible if this is what we think it is." 

They got in and Mulder nodded resignedly, starting the car. "Fine, I'll drop you off at work. I'm going to pay a visit to the boys and see if I can get a fix on a parent company for these two clinics, maybe scout out a familiar name or two." 

Scully sighed beside him and the ride to the Hoover was a silent one. 

His trip to the Gunmen's was pretty fruitless. There seemed to be no documentation connecting the two clinics in a way that would give any direct evidence to who was starting the fires or if a certain shadow government agency owned the labs whose work was completely incinerated. Except for the trace of green goo he and Scully had found tonight. 

The boys fed him a bowl of Raisin Bran and a beer and told him a dirty joke involving a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. That was the extent of his reconnaissance. He'd left feeling tired and empty, and on the way home Scully had called him to say there had been an error at the lab and the sample was contaminated. Another quick call to Detective Rousseau had proven pointless; they'd gotten no further on the apparently flawless case of arson. 

Mulder drove the rest of the way home on auto-pilot. 

And when he wasn't trying inordinately hard to stop it, visions of Stimulus took over his brain, and thoughts of the man behind the wall prevailed. 

The man behind the wall. With the exquisite mouth and studded tongue. 

Mulder sat heavily on his couch and flipped the TV on to a news channel. He turned the volume down when the story on the fire was over and just stared at the screen. 

... 

There was no headway on the case for the next five days despite Mulder's efforts to have the crime scene further analyzed at the Bureau's expense. The accelerant was a common one and there was nothing left of the facility to give them any kind of clue to anything. No more goo. 

He'd found himself back at Stimulus on two of the nights, sticking his dick through a hole and waiting for salvation. 

He'd gotten blown pretty well both times, but... 

It hadn't been the same one. No studs. And no orgasm that made him want to beat down the wall and fuck his mysterious cocksucker senseless for days on end. 

His two most recent visits had given him a few moments of release from himself. But it hadn't torn down the walls inside and sucked at his very soul. 

It was a hefty expectation and one he was trying not to have. 

By the fifth evening working to unravel this arson case, Mulder's nerves were frayed. He'd snapped at Scully and then imposed a guilt trip on himself for punishment rather than apologize. The gin in the cupboard was looking awfully tempting. 

But when he got home from the office, he didn't go to the kitchen. He thought about changing clothes and heading out for a run or to find a pick-up game at the court next to the high school. 

But when he took his suit off and started to change, it wasn't into his running or basketball clothes. It was into a T-shirt and jeans. It was the outfit he'd worn before. To the club. The first time. 

Mulder looked into his mirror over the dresser and swallowed, tucking the shirt in. It was the only thing that had made him feel good in weeks. 

He...was the only thing that had made Mulder feel good in weeks. 

That first, slow caress. Like Mulder was a wild stallion to be broken. It had been careful...respectful...and full of command. 

Mulder combed his fingers through his hair, realizing late the futility of the gesture. The man, whoever it ended up being, wouldn't know or care. And if by some chance he found...the one... They were beautiful to each other. Imperfections....everything outside the realm of mouth and cock, tongue and balls...were irrelevant, even nonexistent. 

Still, Mulder worried over his appearance a little more, straightening his shirt and picking lint off himself. It wasn't about primping. It was more about stalling. Mulder thought about what was here for him in the confines of his apartment. His television. Celluloid sex and the numb feeling of his own hand working frenzied on his cock until he came in a tissue or across the cool leather of the couch. 

And gin. Gin was here. 

Mulder grabbed up his jacket and keys and strode quickly and decidedly out the door. 

As he drove down to Dupont Circle, navigating Saturday night traffic, he thought about another door. That third door. Wondering if he was playing himself for a fool. It didn't matter. Even if it wasn't him. Anything was better than the slow death of his illusions crumbling around him as he drank himself into a poisonous haze of apathy. 

If he was going to do one thing tonight, it was live. 

.......... 

I'm getting too good at building bombs. It's not as savvy or stylish as just starting the fire, in my opinion. It's not my thing. But I can do it if it means torching these Nazi clinics off the face of the earth. 

I finish the deal with Tucker and get the stuff. There's nothing graceful about this. I like a job with finesse. Blowing things up is their way. But I see the necessity. 

And I like the sleek, black truck. It's even got farm plates so the fertilizer will appear legit if I'm pulled over. 

I drop off the goods and head to a motel. It's motel time again. I don't like being home too much. If I get comfortable there, that's when they'll find me. So I pick a decent one downtown where things are a busy curtain of activity, shielding me and all the other vermin from view. 

But I'm restless again. I can't zone out on TV or any other of the myriad pasttimes with which most Americans dilute themselves. 

So against my better judgment, I go out. 

It's Therapy night. Mostly industrial, and maybe I'm getting old but it just gives me a headache. Along with the roaring cacophony, though, are a few scattered favorites of mine. Some Nine Inch Nails which sounds mellow and melodic by comparison. Some Godsmack and a little Type O Negative. And of course, my main man, Marilyn. 

`Beautiful People' is on when I down the second shot and make the decision that I can't wait any longer. I push the barstool back on the floor, sticky with spilled Miller Lite as the bear next to me raises his pina colada in a toast to the beginning of the muted Queer as Folk episode that's coming on the TV to the right of the bar. 

I'm not tipsy tonight. I'm really quite clear. Something about those children's faces tripping through my mind... I need to be more than drunk to get rid of that. I need complete and total distraction. If I don't get it, I might have to blow this town and go find the fucker responsible...break every one of his nicotine-stained fingers. And when that's done, finish the job Andrews botched. I wouldn't have gone for a chest shot if it had been my hit. Straight for the head. That's the only way to take him down. Unless you want to get creative with gardening tools and electricity or something. 

God, I have to get out of my head. It's why I finally broke down and came back here I guess. I have to keep some perspective until I finish this job. I didn't think it would bother me. I'm still a little stunned that it does. I didn't think I was going soft. It's not in my blood to care too much. I haven't hurt since... 

_Stubs of cigarettes in an ashtray. Walking away. My first name from his lips before I go..._

Yeah, cry me a river, right? 

I focus on the drawl of tequila tingling on my tongue, making my stomach hot with wanting more. I focus on the stall door in front of me now. Good old number three. I step inside, and slowly, trance-like, undress. 

I focus on the glory hole. The other room is empty yet and I find myself staring at the hole while I strip everything off. 

I can't deny it. I want him. The one from last time. I want his cock inside me, stabbing a new truth into me, making me believe him that he's all there is. 

When I hear the creak of the door and watch the shadow it casts through the hole, I resign myself to another experience. It won't matter once I'm swallowing it. It's all the same. I just need it hard. I just need my senses overloaded with the drug of sex. I need the plunge of darkness around me once I see the cock offered to my lips like absinthe, a done deal. Musk and muffled grunts turning to shouts and the essence of it all filling my mouth, dissolving reality for another few seconds. 

That's all I need. Nothing else matters. I don't need it to rock my world, just change it for a little while. 

I stand to the side and close to the wall that separates us, leaving my light on for now. I want to see it first. Sometimes they're already dripping pre-cum even before they're touched. I especially like to see that before I make it dark and intimate. 

This one's waiting for something. Maybe he doesn't know I'm in here. I knock on the wall twice just to say hello. Maybe he's a first timer. They can be fun. But they come too fast. 

After a moment, there's a knock back, and I smile at the tentative sound. My breathing has gone shallow, being made to wait like this. I lick my lips and taste salt. I wonder if it will sting him, the tiny crystals scraping his vulnerable cockhead as I suck on it. 

I hear a breath on the other side. I match it, inhaling and holding it in. And then I hear his clothes rearranging as he gets ready. Slowly. The teasing prick. But my own cock is throbbing now, almost ready to leak a little in appreciation of his delectable hesitance. A part of me loves it. The hard, pulsing part. I reach down and hold my panting cock as I watch the hole with predatory anticipation. 

The hole darkens with his nearness and my breath hitches. I see his cockhead clear the hole and I lick my lips, hand stroking my own painful erection as I watch. He penetrates the hole like he's fucking a virgin. Very deliberate, very cautious. 

And he's large. Not as big around as I am maybe, but long. And very hard. 

It's all the way on my side, now, and I'm reaching up to douse the light when I see his heavy sac nudge through the hole, too, and my breath hitches. 

Damn fine cock and balls. My mouth is watering. 

I slither to my knees without making a sound and crawl over to his waiting shaft. I inhale him first. I like to know his flavor with my nose. This one's...familiar. Clean and nearly sweet. I blow the air out through pursed lips, aiming ruthlessly at his slit. The cock jumps and there's a suppressed gasp from the other room. 

I grin at that first indication of the level of his arousal. Aside from the erect cock in my face. 

I open my mouth and lick the tiny hole while at the same time fingering the ring that protrudes from mine. He bucks. I flick at him with one of the silver studs. He bucks again. Harder. Nice. 

More than nice. My heart starts to beat faster. 

I stop playing with myself so that I can take him around the base and hold the cock still. Then I put the stud right at the tip of him again and begin a slow, circling pressure at his slit, massaging it as if I want it to open up enough for me to slip the metal ball right inside his cock. 

There's a loud bang. Probably both fists colliding with the wall. It shakes dangerously. My cock twitches hard. 

No sound from him, though. 

Quiet. 

It's him. I know it's him. 

The certain knowledge has me nearly coming. 

I grind the ball of metal down on his cock and hold him hard. I want to make him squeal. I want him howling over there. But all I hear is the buzzing in my ears and the dull pounding music from the main room. 

I grab his balls and pull on them, chasing his cock now with my tongue as it bobs up away from my mouth. I grab it with my lips and swallow the length greedily as I work his balls. I want to groan around the hot flesh as I down it, but I hold back. I squeeze his balls hard and feel him tremble. 

Maybe if he gets to fuck my mouth again... 

I work his balls back to the other side of the wall, still sucking him, and he's immediately doing me, sliding back and forth, taking long, even strokes that have me laving him from tip to root. 

And it's the same. Same graceful thrusts. Same taste of pre-cum flowering in my mouth. Same length of cock not quite choking me. It's him. My lashes flutter closed in bliss. It's him. 

But this time I remember to touch myself. 

I grip my cock hard. I feel like I can't jack it rough enough. He makes me want to hurt myself. My own pre-cum slicks the way as I do myself so fast and hard I'm sure I'm going to have friction burns even with the coat of natural lube. 

The tension builds on the other side of the wall as he begins to fuck more vigorously. I grunt my pleasure before I remember I shouldn't, and I have a moment of panic as his hips falter, slowing momentarily. But then he's going again, his stiff cock licking over my tongue and spreading my lips wide to take the whole thing. 

He pants a couple of times and I feel my climax surging up my cock. I have a delicious moment to know it's inevitable, to exist on top of it, before it tumbles over me in ferocious ecstasy. 

I bathe the wall and floor in cum as it explodes out of my body, hot and pulsing thick. His cock slides in, then stays deep in my mouth and stabs at my throat while I orgasm, and I practically lose all consciousness of anything other than what's happening between my own legs. As I finish, I let him get himself there with a couple harsh, jerking thrusts. But when he starts to spill over into my mouth and throat, I have to stifle another growl of satisfaction as I drink the evidence of my power over his body. 

His taste intoxicates me further and I feel on the verge of collapsing. I coax every last drop from him and hear him sigh shudderingly. The sound should be a balm to my ears; I've been wanting him to scream for me since I got my mouth around him, but... It sends a dark, fiery tendril of lust through my newly sated body. Something in that sound...strokes something deeper than my cock. Something about it...makes me come alive, warns me, and I open my eyes, only now realizing as his cock pulls back from my well-used mouth that I left the fucking light on. 

.......... 

Mulder's eyes rolled back in his head as the last of his jism was pulled from his cock by the luscious mouth. It became almost painful. Agony, the tired suckling. Mulder bit back a groan and pulled back, unable to stay standing anymore. Again. 

God, it was incredible. 

Beyond. 

He turned and leaned back against the divider wall, unbearably conscious of how thin the wood, of how close he'd come to crying out the intensity of his release for the entire club to hear. 

He had to do it again. 

Had to. 

Mulder half-entertained the idea of trying to jerk himself hard for another round. But the man had drained him so thoroughly that it would probably have to be a good twenty minutes even wanting it as badly as he did, and he was sure his partner wouldn't want to hang out in his stall waiting for that. 

He started to panic. He couldn't leave it up to chance again, just showing up every night hoping to score. He started to feel the beginning unease of revulsion. He was becoming obsessed. And which was worse? Clubbing seven nights a week and getting his cock sucked by countless anonymous men? Or allowing this one, tiny little vice? Jumping into the deep end and indulging this insignificant scrap of madness. 

It wasn't a choice to him. 

He heard the other man dressing already. 

Mulder dug in his jacket for a slip of paper and a pen. He scribbled his note and dropped it through the hole quickly, knocking on the wall three times to get the man's attention. 

He waited, hugging the wall with his back to keep from being seen. It would be bad enough for it to get back to Skinner or the other higher-ups that Spooky Mulder didn't just watch porn but actually avidly participated. If anybody found out the extent of his obsession with his new seedy activity, any respect he might have earned would be irrevocably lost, he was sure. They couldn't fire him, but they'd want to. 

Mulder listened for sounds from the other side but heard nothing. He frowned, anticipating that his partner had actually slipped out and Mulder's chance had gone with him. So it surprised him when the folded post-it shot back through the hole followed by three rapid knocks on the wall. 

He picked the note up excitedly and unfolded it to read his own words: 

'Next Saturday. Midnight. Here.' 

And his partner's on the flip side. One simple word: 

'Definitely.' 

Mulder swallowed as he looked at it, hearing the stall door slam as the other man left. And Mulder smiled. 

... 

The next morning he woke with a hard-on. It was the first time in a while. Lately, if a nightmare didn't wake him in the middle of the night and keep him up until dawn afraid to go back to sleep, it was his alarm clock that brought him out of his troubled sleep and his cock was always quiescent between his legs. 

It's a pretty fuckin' bad depression when even your cock is sad, Mulder thought. 

But it wasn't now. Not sad at all. It was rearing up and out of the slit in his underwear, hard as pipe and ready for action. 

Mulder began his Sunday with a jerk-off session a nineteen year-old would be envious of. 

He showered, ate two blueberry bagels slathered with cream cheese for breakfast, read the front page of the paper, took a run to the gym, worked out for two hours, and ran home. 

He was invigorated. 

He called Scully and told her not to worry about the Klein autopsy until tomorrow. And it wasn't out of some post-cancer pity or guilt. It was just because he didn't feel like the Klein case was where they should be putting their energies. Scully could have the day off. He was determined to make a break in the arson case if it killed him. 

But not before Saturday. 

He had to live through Saturday. Come hell, high water, or Syndicate operatives. 

He showered again and dressed, deciding to visit the burn site one more time. This time with eyes that felt open for the first time in weeks. 

......... 

Infiltrating is usually my favorite part. 

I like pretending. I like looking them in the eye and daring them to see me for what I truly am. 

I never want to look into these kids' eyes again for as long as I live. 

Haunted, wide-eyed stares that plead at me silently. Like imprisoned dolls. China, horse hair, glass, and misery. 

Even as they're driven away, it's like there's a part of them still back there that they mourn and have to look back after. Maybe they're just human enough to cry now and nothing more. They're lost between what they were and what they're supposed to become. 

I torch this one with something akin to deranged glee. 

On the way home, I block out all feeling. I play this game with myself where I try to get my whole body to feel just like my left arm. I imagine I'm completely made up of titanium and plastic. No nerve endings anymore. Muscle and bone are a thing of the past. 

No tear ducts. 

Maybe I should get out of the business. Go disappear up in Canada. Or better yet the Bahamas. Buy a little tiki hut and sell mixed drinks in margarita glasses the size of fish bowls. Get a tan. Swim in the blue-green sea and drift away. I won't know when they colonize, because the sharks will have eaten me away to nothing by then. I'll be long gone and laughing down on this horrorland of vile desolation. 

I wouldn't miss much. And most people around here would be glad to see me split for good. It's something to consider. I never thought I'd go this far down. That I couldn't get back. I'm as lost as they are. 

I drive home. Really home. 

I lay myself down on my bed, stretching and feeling how real my body still is. Not titanium. I'm hurtable. I'm fragile. Not so tough. Nobody would believe me if I told them that. I'm not sure I believe me. They took my arm and that didn't kill me. Hardly slowed me down. 

I slide the shirt up my belly and finger my right nipple, flicking the ring this way and that. Just a small little hurt. I stare at the ceiling and envision a bright blue sky domed high above me. I pull the ring idly. 

My thoughts turn inevitably to him. The man whose cock I've been taking to thinking of as mine. My cock. He's my cock. 

My hand slides down my body lazily. I want to let go into him. Nothing else lately works. I don't know why he does. 

I left the light on. So enraptured with him I was. When something can do that to me, I pay attention. 

I just hold my cock now, hand inside my pants, skin on hot skin. I just shush it...tell it with a strong, sure hand that it'll be soon. It's begun to yearn. I trace the graceful, deadly lines of the blade in a placating manner. I sigh. 

Tomorrow night. He wanted a date with my mouth. It's there for him, too. This crazy thing I wish I didn't feel but that seems to be the only thing keeping me sane. Crazy to be sane. Huh. 

I roll over, hand still down my jeans, cradling my cock `til it cries. It weeps a single, milky tear, and I go to sleep with the light on wondering if I can afford to be this human. 

......... 

Mulder was exhausted from his impromptu trip to West Virginia, but he was determined to keep his date. 

Was it a date? He guessed it was. He'd been looking forward to it all week as though there'd be a candlelight dinner and dancing. 

For the first time, he wondered if he shouldn't just have asked for the guy's number. Maybe made this thing into something more than an illicit visit to the back room of a club. But that might have scared him away. It had not escaped Mulder's notice that this guy was as careful as he was to remain completely anonymous. Not to mention Mulder hadn't been on an actual date in... Eons. The Dark Ages. Cretaceous Period. That kind of thing. 

And to have a sit-down date after fucking the guy's throat through a hole in the wall? Little awkward. 

Still... It could be a sex date first. Ease into something like dinner and a movie. 

Fucking shoot me, Mulder thought wryly, dressing as meticulously as last time and shaking his head at himself in the mirror. His life was so backward it was like living from death to birth. 

His cell phone rang as he was finishing up smoothing his hair into place. 

"Mulder." 

"Mulder, it's me." 

Mulder looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Must be good. Or bad. He licked his lips. "What's up, Scully?" 

"The information's back on the analysis of that alloy we recovered from the West Virginia fire," she told him. 

He ducked his head, listening harder. 

"We may have a break, Mulder," she continued. "It's very unusual. Odds are it was special ordered. It's very cutting edge. I'm going to do a search tomorrow on the companies that sell it and try to track down any other clinics it might be distributed to." 

"Good," Mulder said, mind already reeling from their unexpected good fortune. "Wanna meet for breakfast? I'd like to do a little digging myself." At her pause, he jumped in again. "I'll buy." 

"O-Okay," Scully stuttered. "Mulder? Are you okay?" 

He smiled. Kind of sad that his happiness should key her off that something was wrong. He sighed. "Yeah, Scully. Everything's fine. I'll pick you up in the morning. Eight o'clock?" 

"Eight?" she asked, half-incredulous, half-defeated. 

"Nine?" he tried again, aware of his obliviousness to weekend etiquette. 

"Why don't you give me until ten, Mulder? I'm going to be here a little while yet printing out the information we need." 

"Ten's good," he allowed, knowing he'd show up around nine-thirty anyway. He hung up and smiled down at his phone. 

Then he turned it off, shoved it in his jacket pocket, and shoved himself into his jacket. 

The club was busy once more. Mulder kicked himself for picking Therapy night again. Of course Friday night would have been bad because the fire would have made him miss it all together with no way to cancel properly or express his intense regret. And Sunday was too long. It was hard enough to wait the week he'd established. 

He wondered if his play partner had come here in the interim. If this date with Mulder was more an amusement to him than...necessary. Mulder tried not to care one way or the other as he downed the last of his glass of beer and stood up. 

It was ten minutes till. But he couldn't wait. He'd just hoard the room if he had to. 

He was elated to see that the third stall door actually had a sign on it that read: `Out of Order.' It was the same block handwriting as his note. Sly bastard, Mulder thought, looking around himself before ignoring the sign and pulling the door open and closing himself inside. 

The light was off on the other side of the wall. Mulder got close to the divider, feeling apprehensive suddenly. Then he noticed the folded note on the floor near the dark hole. He picked it up and read it. 

'Hard this time. Light off.' 

Mulder swallowed. It was him. And he wanted it hard. 

Mulder shoved the note in his pocket and then ripped the jacket off. He fumbled with his pants, this time not just taking his cock out but pulling jeans and underwear halfway down his thighs. He reached up and turned the light off as instructed and then found the hole with his hand. 

His breathing was shallow and erratic as he moved in closer, fingers curled down around the lip of the hole so his cock could find it without bumping the splintered wood. 

Before he could move his hand away and replace it with his cock, he felt the humid breath and then there was a mouth pressing itself to his knuckles. Mulder started, gasping at the incredibly intimate caress of lips on his fingers. He gripped the padded wood, his cock bouncing in anticipation of ecstasy. 

The lips were so...tender and moist and...beautiful. They opened on his tense knuckles and mouthed his hand seductively. Mulder's own lips parted on a slow exhale. He shut his eyes and rested his head on the wall, wishing he could fall to his knees and coax that mouth to his own for their first kiss. 

Instead he stayed standing and allowed the man's lips to ghost dance over his fingers. Mulder had begun to shake with arousal and longing. The wet lips pressed to each fingernail individually and then the now-familiar studded tongue snaked out and began to gently pry Mulder's middle finger from its grip on the hole. The pillowed mouth enveloped the digit in wet euphoria. It started to suck, slowly working Mulder's fuck-you finger in and out. 

Mulder slowly let go with his index finger, heart racing, and let it gently collide with the hollowed out cheek. He felt the man exhale through his nose, the air brushing his kiss-damp skin. He tried it again, this time making it more of a deliberate caress as he brushed the man's jaw. 

A strong hand immediately grabbed his own, holding it still, and the mouth opened wider to draw both fingers into his mouth, sucking hungrily now and breathing harshly. 

Mulder balled his free hand into a fist, feeling the air on his naked cock like a rough caress. The mouth slurped on his fingers, giving them one long last lick, and then Mulder was allowed to finally move in enough to push his cock through the hole. It hit the man's chin first and his partner compensated, moving his mouth down and taking him in the moment his cock cleared the hole. Mulder pushed forward, mouth falling open slack as the man took him inside inch by inch. 

The tongue pulled and sucked him in, the studs stroking him, imploring him to just let go into the blissful finality of orgasm. He bit his lip and pressed in as far as he could go, sinking into the tight throat and molding himself to the wall. 

Then he began to hump, bucking into the rhythmic suction. His hands splayed against the wall as he followed the note to the letter and immediately started to drive himself hard into the man's mouth and throat. His whole body collided with the wall on each brutal impact of his cock into the drenched heat. 

Mulder gritted his teeth. A week. Just a week. But there were tears squeezing their way out of the corners of his eyes. This man evoked a need in him that could be painful to deny. He craved the pleasure of this...this mouth around him, allowing him to fuck all his frustrations out between the supple lips. To let it flood out on his cum. 

And there was no explanation for why it was so good. It went beyond technique or metallic adornments or physical compatability. It was something he couldn't quantify. And maybe because that was what Mulder dealt with best, he craved it more. He couldn't explain it. So it became even more irresistible. 

He tried to make it last, but his balls were tightening for climax, his body overriding his desire to stay. He rode the mouth unrelentingly, choking back his own need to cry out. His hands scrabbled against the wood and he realized it was because he wanted to reach through the hole and hold the man's head. He wanted to touch a body, stroke the hair, hold on for dear life because he was about to come. 

Mulder pistoned his hips against the wall as it hit him and his orgasm screamed through his cock. Streams of it coating the inside of the man's mouth faster than he could swallow it down. Mulder panted loudly and he fought to keep quiet. He trembled, ass still convulsively clenching while he finished, the last of his strokes desperate inside his partner's expert mouth. 

He started to pull back, but the hand shot up and gently encircled his cock, the head still being massaged between lips and tongue. Mulder whined a tiny bit, high in his throat and stayed against the wall, letting the man kiss him softly for another long moment before he was released. Mulder staggered back, turning and pressing back to the wall and trying to slow his breathing. 

He reached over to his jacket and fumbled around for his pen and paper. He cursed under his breath and reached up to turn on the light, hoping it wouldn't scare off his lover. 

The light seemed overly bright in the small space and Mulder winced, even as he dug out the little pad he'd brought and tore the lid off the pen with his teeth. He was shaking as he wrote. 

'You're amazing. Tuesday night too soon?' 

He was still catching his breath as he folded the slip of paper in half and shot it through the hole and then knocked. He watched the hole, pants still around his thighs, and saw the light come on. The temptation to peek through was horrible...a little devil sitting on his shoulder. But he didn't. God forbid he ruin the illusion for himself and find that all this time it had been Newt Gingrich or something. And if he chased this guy away with a faux pas like that, he'd just go ahead and shoot his own balls off. He couldn't lose this. Not now when he'd lost so much. 

As he waited, he pulled his pants and underwear up, careful of his oversensitive cock. He was sweating, some from exertion and some from anxiety. Was he pushing it with this guy? 

The paper flew back through with the obligatory knock. Mulder smiled and picked it up, staying to the side of the hole through which they could view each other if they weren't careful. Mulder knew this guy was, though. He wondered if they were standing back to back with only the quarter inch thick wall between them. He unfolded the paper. 

'What time?' 

Mulder's heart pounded beneath his ribs. The guy wanted to do it. Plus, they had a little dialogue going. He wrote underneath the man's question. 

'Midnight again?' 

Then he added under that, feeling high: 

'Hard enough?' 

The reply was quick and it simply said: 

'Yes. To both.' 

Mulder heard the sound of the door closing as his lover left. He slid down the wall again, banging the back of his head on it as he went, and he groaned. Loudly. 

......... 

"It needs done, Alex." 

The old guy's tone is a little clipped. He's testy with me right now. He can sense my reluctance. 

"It's not a problem," I say back, voice low in the drawing room. I don't trust his manservants. I don't care if they're sucking his cock, getting his slippers, or whatever. I get a nasty vibe, and a closed door doesn't mean anything to me. 

"Friday night," he tells me. "Steal the fetus first. Without it, this is all for nothing." 

My mind screams that fifty hybrid children rescued is far from nothing, but my face doesn't betray the thought as I narrow my eyes and nod my agreement. 

He dismisses me and I walk out with my gun hand ready to palm my weapon if one of them sneezes. 

Outside, it's colder. Autumn is close, licking through the air like a serpent and slithering under my jacket. A horse whinnies from the barn and the breeze carries on it the smell of hay, manure, and freshly hooved dirt. I get in my truck and pull off the drive, turning down a dark country road. 

I know I need to keep my mind on the last clinic. After that I'm gone. Disappearing myself to Russia. I think. The Caribbean keeps looking more and more tempting. 

I check my watch. Four hours until I meet him. God, I'm insane to be doing this! The minute it became something resembling a need, I should have cut it off. Hell, I shouldn't go tonight. But I'm not even halfway considering not showing up. The hate I feel admitting it should kill the desire, I think, but... 

I need this. I need to service him. I need the rhythm of it, the simplicity it fronts while shading the true complexity of our dealings. The want covers up the need. His and mine. And I know he needs me. I can feel it. I siphon it off of him...suck it right out of his cock. And my need to be on my knees for him escalates every moment. 

Nobody's ever fucking done this to me. 

And it ends after this week. 

He's demoted to a memory. Like those children. 

Like my arm. 

Like Fox Mulder. 

I'm going to fucking rule the world. They'll all be mile markers, shining in the headlights only for a moment before they fade and I leave them behind. I'm sick of need. I'll cut it away like a tumor. But not yet. Not while what I want and what I need are still one and the same. No one gets hurt. Everybody gets what they want, right? 

Thank fucking God he picked Tuesday. No Therapy. No videos of red-leathered severe German women whipping muscle boys and making them lick soldiers' boots to the tune of Kitty. 

And it's all muted because I sneak in through the back door. No tequila for me tonight. Danger gets me more drunk anyway. I suck on my dwindling lemon drop and take a trip to the john to piss. I check myself out in the mirror before I leave. My eyes are bright like a lunatic. 

I feel fine. I feel nothing more than exhilarated. I crunch the candy to dust and swallow it down. My mouth tingles. It'll feel so good when he slips his cock inside. 

My room is empty and I'm grateful because I didn't have time to do the signs like last time. I tickled myself pink over that. I hope it amused him. I get the feeling he's got a sense of humor. I don't know why. Maybe I am finally clinically insane. That'd sure bite. Then again, crazy people have ruled the world before. 

He's already here. I duck to the side quickly, seeing his little yellow note on the floor. 

'Hard?' 

I smirk at the word. He didn't disappoint me last time. Hell, I came twice. I wonder if that would piss him off. I don't think so. I picture him laughing. 

It's not good to picture things. 

Except the Russian winter. Their screams behind the thick rock walls. Getting the elixir and ruling the free world, keeping it free. 

I whip out my pen, blinking furiously. 

'However you want it. Just make it last.' 

He lets me have his hand again. In the dark. I find it with my lips...work his thumb into my mouth. I suck hungry and a little angry. At him, at me. He makes me want to touch him. Makes me hard with just a thought in his direction. As I kiss him, moving from slender, long thumb to laving his knuckles once more, I stroke myself. Smooth, luxurious ministrations that a lover uses. 

I am my lover. He's just my cock. 

Speaking of. I want it. 

He's started trying to touch me again. The silky pads of his fingers seeking to search my face like a blind man. He'll read the braille of me...learn me... I pull away, my absence a silent demand for his cock. 

He gives it. Long and ready. He's dripping. I can smell it before I lick it off his slit with the tip of my tongue. I ache that I've done this for him. My own cock spills a drop of pre-cum dew in answer to him. I lean forward and take him in my mouth. 

He slides over my tongue as smooth and potent as honey wine. He's fragrant with wanting me. A musky sweet that makes me salivate to just eat him. He fills me but stops short of taking my throat. I swirl my tongue under his turgid cock, writing secrets on it, beautiful like he is. My spit like henna, painting him mine. 

He moves in me slow and deliberate. Resolute. His pace is controlled and even, but there's a fire in him. A curling, writhing fire under his movements...pushing him into me. 

He's doing it again. 

Loving my mouth. 

I surrender to what he wants. It's for him. He wants it. So I give it. My need is irrelevant. My cock is irrelevant. The fact that it's better than anything in my life... Irrelevant. 

He fulfills my one requirement. He slowly fucks my mouth for about thirty minutes. Or forever. Whichever comes first. I can't tell. I feel permanently opened for him. I'm mesmerized by how he moves. I don't think I'm ever going to stop feeling his cock in my mouth. He's a part of me. Maybe that's what he wants. 

Then, just when I'm prepared for it to go another half hour, when I think I might need it to, when I'm crying and I don't know why, he pushes deep inside, shudders, and comes hard. Remaining still, buried within my mouth as I drink it out of him, he trembles. I can hear him wanting to gasp, wanting to groan. I wish he would. But maybe it would just be a hinderance...taking that with me. 

The last spills over my tongue and I swallow, my face wet with tears. I let his cock ease past my swollen lips. My jaw aches from this. But it's perfect. I'm buzzing. Disoriented. I turn my back against the wall and sit for what feels like a long time. I close my eyes....wipe them. 

God, what's happening to me? I don't cry anymore. There's no reason. So he fucked me a long time. He used me so carefully it was like a wedding night. So the fuck what? He's just the cock. He's the cock. 

I'm the sucker. 

The sound of his knock startles me and I jump. 

I turn the light on to see his note. I expect to find another little hopeful day and time. What's actually written there terrifies me. 

'I want to suck you.' 

I gasp. I stare at his words. I feel him over there. New tears blur my vision. Jesus, it's just a little head. He wants to go down. Can't say I blame him. 

But for some reason my body's in shock. I'm shaking. But my cock's still hard...the dagger long and sharp. I didn't get myself off. 

I'm the cock. 

He wants me to be his cock. 

I'd get to feel his mouth. Know a little more of him. I'm not ready to leave this room. 

I'm in need. 

I slowly push to my feet. He's waiting. I eye my clothes piled in the corner, a haphazard mess of inside-out denim and balled up cotton. Go home, Alex. Leave him behind. Don't come back here. 

Cut off your other arm. 

I lift the pen and force my fingers to make my response. 

....... 

When the note came back to Mulder, he almost couldn't make himself pick it up. There had been no knocks. Only a nearly tangible quiet. A waiting. Breathing coerced to a hush. 

Mulder was glad for the wall right now. He was a wreck. Inexplicable tears had run down his face as he'd come. And his eyes surely sparkled wet now. He'd had a religious experience. Maybe gone out of his body. Though he'd felt every languid thrust. Every suckle on his raging cock. He'd been inside every moment. He'd crawled inside his lover's mouth and basked there. 

And he was so sure about what he wanted now that he knew he'd do whatever was necessary to get it. He hadn't let himself contemplate the note before he'd thrown it through. It was a moment of pure insanity, but one he couldn't regret. Not if there was one iota of a chance that he could have this. 

He swallowed and picked up the paper. His fingers slipped on the edge as he tried to unfold it. His eyes practically drank the words. 

'Take off your clothes. 

Knock when you're on your knees.' 

Mulder gulped, cock filling at the silent commands. He slowly rose, shivering with apprehension and desire. He took his clothes off as asked. He found himself feeling self-conscious with the light on, even realizing he wouldn't be seen. He guessed that was probably just part of it and it occurred to him that his lover had been naked all this time. 

And Mulder was going to get to see a part of the body when so far he'd seen nothing. He'd be creaming all over himself if he hadn't just come five minutes ago. 

He stayed to the side, fearful of this new vulnerability, and sank to his knees. He raised his hand to knock, took a deep, cleansing breath, and rapped against the wall. 

He only had to wait a moment, and then a thick, hard cock maneuvered through the hole. 

And it was... 

Mulder's mouth dropped open upon seeing its...decorations. The ring shining at its tip, which would have been the solitary fixation point for Mulder's immense fascination, took a quick backseat to the tattoo covering the entire underside of the flushed pink erection. 

It was a knife. A dagger, specifically. He'd tattooed a knife on his cock. It was... Jesus, it was... 

Mulder thought he'd never seen anything as arousing in his life. 

He crawled over, enthralled with the look of it, licking his lips, his eyes heavy with lust. He knelt in front of it. It threw off a heat that beckoned him closer. He lifted a hand cautiously and fingered the small, thick ring first. The cock bobbed and he heard a tiny gasp from the other side. He instinctively looked up but there was no face to see. He dropped his gaze back to the man's cock. 

Mulder let his finger wander down, breath soft and fast, and he stroked over the fat crown, continuing until he reached the sharp point of the knife beneath. He watched as he traced down the length of the knife, feeling only soft, hot skin beneath the pad of his finger until he'd traversed the black hilt at the base. 

He let his breath out in a loud rush then, grasping the root and bringing the cock to his mouth hungrily. He enveloped the head, feeling dizzy. His lover bucked into his face and he had to work not to groan his lust back to him. Instead, he licked over the ring repeatedly, first soft and then flicking it, holding the solid length still for his questing mouth. 

Mulder's eyes fluttered open and closed as he licked and tasted and kissed. He moved the ring inside the man's cock, licking it until the ball that held it closed wouldn't let it pass through any further. 

So long. It'd been so long. And never like this. He'd been a drunk, horny, experimental kid. This was mature and reverent and meaningful. Mulder sucked the cock further into his mouth, turning his head for the best fit and scooting back on his knees. He reached down, eyes closed, mouth working, and held the man's heavy balls in the palm of his hand. He tongued the underside of his shaft, licking at a juicy vein, and he squeezed the balls snugly in his fist. 

The ring felt cool and tasted vaguely tangy, like metal and pre-cum. It tickled the back of his throat as he sank further down. Mulder pulled off and sucked on the ring itself. It drew a sharp inhale from the other side and then a fist pounding the wall between them once. Mulder held the ring in his teeth and pulled once gently. 

An exhale, sharp through a tight jaw. Mulder's blood rushed down between his legs at the sound, and he let go of the silken balls to run his fingers up and down his own demanding flesh. He'd known he'd wanted to do this. As he teased the ring and the taste of pre-ejaculate burst on his tongue like forbidden candy, he knew why. They were matched. Paired. What were the odds? To find his mate behind a glory hole, sporting a tattooed cock and a penchant for ragged sighs. 

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut and surrendered, going down on the cock again, letting it fill him. He persuaded the man's balls back to his own side and waited for the final fulfillment of his addiction. 

........... 

Giving him my cock was like putting my own gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. 

Splash my life across the wall like so much blood. He's doing it. 

He's on me like I'm the most delicious thing he's ever had in his mouth. His lower lip drags along the knife. I must be shredding it, my cock is so blade-sharp and hard. Unyielding. His tongue licks off what must be his own blood. Or maybe I'm already coming. All I know is the warm fluidity of his mouth and the undertow of that tongue, the stimulation brimming painful. I can't be coming, because I'm still so hard. I've gotta be red and oozing in his mouth. 

But I'm crying again, trying not to sob through the wall for him to push me over the edge of myself...slide me along the knife, too, so I can die from this. It's the only way to go. I'm convinced now. 

I've got the side of my face pressed to the dirty wall. I'm panting. My eyes are closed, trying to see him painted across my lids. The rings through my nipples scrape and bump the painted wood and I'm ready to fuck. 

I want his lips split under my thundering cock. I want to set this thing in me free. The thing that's been trapped for so long. He can wipe it away...can explode it out of me. 

And he's shifting the bulk of my aching balls. I'm no longer stuffed into the hole, no longer at his mercy. I'm free. He gives me my freedom and I take it. With a barely audible whisper, "Oh God...", I pull back and then rock forward, gently entering his mouth. His lips are wet with spit and pre-cum. I sag against the wall, slipping perfectly into his mouth like we've been doing this for years. 

He engulfs me, embraces my shaft, holds me tight until I'm ready. I rear back again and thrust forward. He sucks me in like I'm long-lost. Brother, lover, friend, or foe. I don't think I care. Just like his cock loved my mouth...now his mouth loves my cock. 

I cry as I start to fuck him. 

I'm sweating trying not to come. I never want to leave him. I pound into his face, breath seething through my teeth as I go harder than I probably should. He's just so fuckable. The ring is moving in my cock, streaming sparks of lust through the stimulated tip down the shaft, into my balls, making them pulse and throb. I want him all around me, mouth around my cock, swallowing my balls, licking my anus, my thighs, wetting me all over down there. 

I want him to kiss my mouth. 

I gasp, my hips erratically thrusting for a moment. He seduces me back into fucking him with a soulful lick under the head of my cock. He opens his mouth for me, poking at the ring with his tongue, and I stifle a growl as I fill him again, burying myself until I feel the resistance of his throat. I don't press past. 

I work up a rhythm again, only moving my hips, keeping my strokes short so that I can remain lodged inside. He's so warm. His mouth promises me things. Amnesia, heroin, home. Comfort and crescendo. I clench the muscles of my ass and repeatedly stab him for his vulnerablity...his surrender. I sure as hell don't deserve it. But he makes me wish I did. 

He increases the suction around my cock and suddenly it's too much. I slam my whole body into the wall as the orgasm hits and I start to spurt into his mouth. I do him hard at the end, unable to spare him this pain. He has to take it because it's his. He has to share this with me. 

I screw my cum down his throat until it's gone and I can feel him lapping it up eagerly. A fat tear cascades down my cheek as he gives the ring one last tender pull and sets me free again. 

My cock bobs out of his mouth, still hard enough to kiss him on the chin as I go. I immediately turn my back on him, hating how the sex is draining off of me and the cool air of the room is already trying to calm my hot skin. I don't want calm. I hate this room, but I don't want to leave. 

Several minutes pass before I see his note shoot through to my side of the room. He knocks quietly. I bend down and take the paper with trembling fingers. 

'Saturday night. 

Meet for real. Face to face. 

Please.' 

Oh God... 

Shit... 

Another goddamned tear follows the tracks of the others. My left arm aches and I press his note to my forehead hard, trying to take a deep breath. 

Why'd he have to do this? I want to yell through the wall. Fucking WHY?! Isn't this fucking ENOUGH for you?! It's too much for me! I'm shaking with something I know: anger. And something I don't quite. Maybe it's regret. 

I find a pen amongst my twisted things on the floor and hold the note against the wall with my prosthetic as I write the one word. 

'No.' 

I knock too hard after I toss the note through. 

I start to dress, wondering if he'll even answer. What will he say? What will I, if given another chance? 

My cock and mouth hurt. I ignore the sweet pain as I pull my clothes on. Was this it? All we get? All I can have? 

I hear a quiet sniff from his side. For fuck's sake, don't do that. Don't pull that shit. My own lip trembles dangerously. I pull the T-shirt over my head roughly. 

The paper lands on my side, drawing my quick attention. I leave my jeans undone to retrieve it. 

'This then?' 

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the flimsy wall. 

This. One more time. 

The job's Friday. I was going to skip town Saturday. 

One more night here. It's not that long. It's not a stupid thing to do. It's nothing. 

I look down at his note. Please, he said. 

I write my response, throw it through, kill the light, and stalk out. 

The back door slams against the brick as the cold outside air slaps me in the face. I blink for a moment, taking a deep breath in. I shove my hand in my jacket pocket and look around. I should go. I want a cigarette. Fuck, I just want a smoke. I need him gone. I exhale in frustration. 

"Cigarette?" I ask the man near the end of the alley smoking. 

I'm grateful there's no small talk, no come-ons, as he shakes a Merit from the soft pack. Beggars can't be choosers. I nod curtly and take the cigarette. I pull my own lighter from my pocket, turn away from the chill wind and light it. 

The first drag is long and thick. I breathe it in, closing my eyes, and let it out slowly. 

I walk back down the alley, toward the darkness. One more lab. One more fire. Maybe it'll help. Maybe the flames will lick away his taste. Maybe I can get back to what I once was. 

Maybe one more time with him won't matter. Maybe the titanium will hold up. 

I take another drag, the smoke not as satisfying as I remembered it being. I can't go home. I can't go to the motel room, either. I just need a drink. Maybe. 

I stamp out the cigarette, taking a quick look down the alley toward the street. Just one or two drinks. I'll get things back in perspective. 

I won't let his cock or his memory follow me tonight. And maybe Friday I'll throw the thought of him and of this person he nearly made me become into the inferno. 

.......... 

'One more time.' Mulder swallowed hard and squeezed the little paper in his hand. 

He heard the sound of boots on the wooden floor, knowing the man he was sick over was just on the other side of his flimsy wooden door. He could walk over, throw open the door and catch him, easy. See his face. Know who he was, once and for all. But why? The man didn't want him. Didn't want anything more than one more cum. One more night of Mulder's dick, maybe Mulder's mouth. Maybe not even that. Mulder put his hand over his eyes, squeezing away the tears. 

Now, not even this. He wouldn't even have this anymore. It wasn't real anyway, he knew now. It was just a distraction, a deviation, a pleasurable way to pass some time. 

At least for the guy on the other side of the wall it was. 

Mulder ground his teeth and willed himself not to cry. There were others waiting to use these booths, he knew, and if he wouldn't let himself verbalize his pleasure, he sure as fuck wasn't going to let anyone hear him verbalize his pain. He waited until he was sure his partner was gone, then got up off the floor and brushed at his jeans. 

He opened the door and couldn't resist looking around quickly, even after making the decision not to try and see his would-be, or rather, wouldn't-be, lover. But all he saw were men waiting to get into the booths, and he pushed past them, eyes feeling swollen and gritty, and headed for the bar. 

He pushed his way into a place near the back where he was less likely to be propositioned and ordered a double gin and tonic. When it came, he gulped it down quickly, grieving the loss of the taste of the other man but wanting oblivion as quickly as possible. His vision blurred and he wiped at his eyes, uncaring, and ordered a second in a voice gone hoarse with bruising and grief. He belched and slumped over, his legs still weak from his climax, his strength drained away. He wished for a barstool, but the club was full tonight and he was lucky to get standing room. He drank the second double gin and tonic a little more slowly, starting to feel sick, and put the glass down heavily on the bar, turning with slight curiosity at the chill of a cold breeze hitting his back suddenly. 

He looked at the dark figure of the man entering through the bar's back door, and for a second, the alcohol and despondancy rendered him senseless and he didn't register anything. Then his mouth literally dropped open, his entire body flaring to life, as Alex Krycek gaped and took off at a run, back out the door he'd just come in through. 

Mulder lunged after him, no thought in his head other than that it was Krycek, and he had to catch him. He was a little awkward getting through the door, but once his lungs drew in a breath of fresh, cold air from the alley, he broke into a dead run toward the figure making breakneck speed. 

Mulder easily caught up with him, more than twice the runner Krycek was, and threw himself at him, slamming them both up against the alley brick. Krycek let out a loud 'oof' as Mulder's body forced the air out of him and cried out sharply as his face smashed into the wall. 

Mulder staggered back a little, recovering his own breath, and grabbed Krycek by the shoulder, jerking him around to face him. He gasped as Krycek spun around, blood gushing from his mouth, pouring down his chin and instantly soaking his white T-shirt. Mulder backed up another step, taken aback by all the blood, and Krycek spit a mouthful of it to the side. He put his hand to his mouth and opened it, reaching inside. Mulder wondered if he was pulling out a loosened tooth, but when Krycek's hand came away holding two silver studs, Mulder gasped. 

His mouth dropped open. His eyes went round. And his head began shaking back and forth, back and forth, no no no no no, as his eyes filled with horrified tears. 

"No," he croaked out. "No..." He took another step back, as Krycek spat another mouthful of blood on the ground, hand in a fist at his side, holding the tiny little bits of evidence out of Mulder's sight and gasping for breath. 

"NO!!!" Mulder suddenly roared, and he charged Krycek, shoving him back against the wall and punching him, doubling the other man over and getting sprayed with blood all down his front. "No, it's not YOU!" Mulder yelled, feeling so much rage, so much pain, so much betrayal that he felt he just might kill Krycek this time. As he pulled back his bloody fist to hit Krycek again, it certainly looked like he was. "No!" he yelled, as he sunk a punch into the already ripped-up mouth. "No!" he sobbed, as he brought his fists down on either one of Krycek's shoulders, knocking him to his knees on the bloody ground. 

Oh GOD his knees... 

"Just back away, Mister," he heard from beside him. "The cops are on their way." He looked over to find a gun pointed at him, a leather-covered six-and-a-half foot bearded man holding him in his sights. 

Mulder gasped, blinking, then looked back down at Krycek, who was moaning quietly at his feet, doubled over and spitting up blood all over his own jeans and Mulder's shoes. He stepped back, following the big man's directions, lifting his hands to his sides. 

"I'm a fuh-federal agent," he gasped out, shaking. "This man is a wuh-wanted felon." He swallowed back bile and blinked back tears. 

"You can tell the cops," said the man with the gun. "Just back away." 

Mulder took another step back, leaving Krycek on his knees against the alley wall, looking down at him. That's the mouth that had felt so tender, so real. Those torn, bloody lips are the ones that had made love to his hand in a way that still made his eyes sting. Made love to his dick in a way that still made his whole body tingle. He closed his eyes, shaking his head. He'd never get it. He'd never get what he wanted, now. Not from Krycek. Never from Krycek. 

"You okay?" the man with the gun said, now talking to Krycek and stepping closer to him. 

Mulder looked down, hands still raised at his sides. Krycek's right arm was wrapped around himself, his body shaking and rocking slightly on the bloody ground. Every few seconds, he spat a mouthful of blood to the side, but he didn't look up. "I'm okay," he heard Krycek gasp out. 

"Do you need help?" the other man asked again, looking concerned, and keeping his gun aimed squarely at Mulder's chest. Mulder didn't move. 

"No, I'm fine," said Krycek, his voice garbled, slurred, and heavily lisping. From the damage done to his tongue. From the studs. "No copth." 

"My ID's in my back pocket, in my wallet," said Mulder quietly. "I'm unarmed. Go ahead." He licked his lips, knowing Krycek didn't want the cops showing up any more than he did, and knowing neither one of them had any time to make this guy drop his gun. Then he started as Krycek pushed himself to his feet and started half-running down the alley, still clutching his arm to his stomach. "I told you, he's a suspect," Mulder yelled, beginning to panic. "He's getting away!" 

The other man looked confused, first watching the retreating figure of Krycek round the corner out of sight, then looking back to Mulder, who was about to risk getting shot running after him. 

"Let me show you my ID," said Mulder, flicking his eyes to the end of the alley where Krycek had disappeared, lowering his hand a little already. 

The man with the gun nodded, and Mulder sighed with relief and reached into his pocket, yanking out his wallet and shaking it open so the other man could see his badge. The man's mouth dropped open and he lowered the gun. "You're FBI?" he said, frowning. 

Mulder nodded. "I need your gun," he said, putting his wallet away. He held out his hand, and the stunned man placed the gun in it. "I'll bring it back later," Mulder told him, already breaking into a run. 

...... 

I'm bleeding and sweating in the cold and all I know is that it's Mulder here in front of me, yelling, full of rage. It was Mulder's face I saw at the bar. All I know is the familiar pain of him. I don't know why he's here, how he found me. My mind briefly skates over that it must be the fires. But he's hitting me again, almost not allowing an intake of breath much less thought. And I'm doubled over. I'm down. I'm spitting blood. I only see asphalt, feel it against my knuckles. 

There's someone else. They're talking to Mulder. The cops are coming. Shit. I try to look up. I see shoes in the shadows. I cough. I'm saying I'm fine. I'm okay. No cops. Shit. 

He's got a gun on Mulder. The gun's on Mulder. Not me. I take my out and start to half run, half fall down the alley toward the street and my freedom. I can see the lights reflecting on the damp pavement. I skid to a stop, coming face to face with five of them. They all look the same. The taste of my own blood overwhelms me. I remember that I'm supposed to be the victim. My heart is racing. I can't breathe. Their guns are drawn. 

And before I can speak, three guns shift to something behind me. "Stop right there! Put your weapon down on the ground!" 

I turn my head, eyes wide, and watch Mulder slowly lower a gun to the ground. The urge to run is almost too much to bear. My thighs are tense and ready. But there are two guns still on me. 

"I'm a federal agent," Mulder gets out, but they're already taking him, throwing him face down on the hood of one of the cop cars. 

I sniff blood back up my nose. Standing still now, my mind starts to catch up with my body. I gulp in a breath and look at Mulder doubled over the hood. His words start to filter back to me. The words he spat, the words he fairly sobbed as he took uncharacteristically unchecked punches at me. 

It's not you. 

I frown. Breathing heavily and watching them pat him down, I can't comprehend the meaning. Does it have to do with the fire? The bombings? 

No, it's not YOU! 

The hurt in his eyes through my own haze of pain. The incredible, unmistakable hurt. 

It's not YOU. 

He turns his head, face pressed down on the black metal hood. He's facing me now. Our eyes meet. I blink. For the first time since he started hitting me, I feel the fist I have clenched painfully at my side. I look down at it as if my only hand doesn't even belong to me. I loosen the grip...feel the little metal balls roll slightly in my bloody palm. The piercings. 

No, it's not YOU! 

My eyes widen. He saw the piercings. 

It's not YOU. 

I gasp. My head whips up and I'm frowning at Mulder, his eyes still on me. And the emotion there staggers me. Anger, as always. But with it... Hurt, sadness...revulsion. 

Oh my god. 

I blink uncomprehendingly. But I think I understand everything now. 

All the time. Every single time. It was Mulder. 

God, it was Mulder! 

The memories rush over me fast and violent. The first touch of his cock on my lips and tongue. The thrusting length of it, the musky heat. His cum dripping down my chin. 

His long fingers. His tentative touch on my face. His wet mouth on my erection. The ache while he sucked me. Cumulatively hours of sex. 

He was my cock. He was my lover. He was turning me human. Mulder. 

"He's FBI. Fox Mulder." They've found his badge. I feel the shift in the electrons, the atmosphere. I feel the fear start to escalate under the shock. 

No, it's not YOU! 

The guns are still on me. He's standing up again. They're giving Mulder's gun back. He's taking it. My breathing becomes shallow again. He's looking at me still. He's covered in my blood. My cum. He's been on his knees for me. Oh god. 

"This man is a suspect. I'm apprehending him." It's Mulder's voice, fake-calm. And even though there's a fear far worse for me than even being arrested, the relief that he's not just handing me over still registers for the briefest of moments. Until his eyes are boring into mine, dark and endless, and I can't honestly believe I'll be living through the night. I swallow and sniff again. I drop my eyes, unable to see what's replaying in my memory under his intense gaze. 

The cops are talking to him, offering assitance. He's taking a pair of cuffs. I look up from under my lashes to watch how he's holding the gun. His fingers are tight around it. He's trembling ever-so-slightly. They don't see it. They don't notice. I gulp down my fear. 

And before I know it, as they're backing away, leaving the scene, I feel Mulder move in behind me slightly. I feel his heavy presence, his shadow falling across my back, hot. I can hear his breathing. I can feel it. I feel his hand at my lower back, slipping my own gun from the waistband of my jeans. The brushing of the metal as he withdraws it is horribly erotic. I hear him store it, and then I feel his own gun press slowly into my back. 

"Wrists behind your back," he says. And it's not quite angry. I don't know what it is. It holds a hint of the sadness I saw in his eyes. It's almost cold. Almost. 

I do as he asks, watching the cops getting back in their cars, the lights still flashing. 

I feel the cuffs click on my right wrist and then feel the tug at my shoulder as he takes hold of my prosthetic wrist. Then nothing. His stillness is so utter that the tension of it nearly rings in my ears. My breath gets caught in the frozen moment. 

It's the arm. He didn't know. Of course he didn't know. And now he's holding it. Grasping my fake wrist and my other, both pulled back behind me. I can do nothing. I just have to let him hold it. I let my head hang on my shoulders, barely breathing. It's a full ten seconds, and then he still doesn't move. He just lets out some of his breath on a small, involuntary sound. It hits the back of my neck and it's hard not to flinch. 

But then he's attaching the cuff. I feel the renewed tugging at my shoulder and the shuddering, labored breaths behind me, and finally he lets go and the barrel of the gun is pressed hard into my lower back. 

"P-" he starts, losing his breath on it. "Parking lot," Mulder tries again, barely getting the words to form. I hold my breath and start to walk, feeling him behind me, close. 

And when he shoves me into the front seat of his car, detaching the restraint from my left wrist only to secure my right to the door handle, I don't know what to think. I can feel his breath, fast and erratic through his nose as it hits my face while he leans across me. His body brushes mine while he readjusts the cuffs. I close my eyes on his smell, beyond familiar now. 

He slams the door closed without a word. And I'm terrified. 

........... 

The arm. Oh my GOD the fucking ARM. It's not THERE anymore. It's just not fucking there. The shiver of shock and revulsion as I grabbed it and realized it wasn't alive echoes through me again now and I breathe it down. What happened? What happened between the time he jumped out of that truck and now? Was it like it almost was with me, a well-meaning dirty peasant with a dented machete in the dark? 

Oh God. It didn't ALMOST happen to him. It happened. Somehow, the horror I narrowly escaped HAPPENED to him. It's like he took it for me. He experienced it for me so I wouldn't have to. 

That's ridiculous, of course, but the thought circles just the same. It could have been me. It could have been, but it wasn't. It was him. 

As if things weren't complicated enough. 

I can see it there, hanging at his side, not breathing like the rest of him, his jacket sleeve moving it, but it staying stiff and still. The plastic hand twisted unnaturally, dirty and awkward. I look away. 

I shove the key into the ignition brutally, unable not to remember the soft, hot feel of his lips and tongue on my knuckles. He knelt in the dark, naked, missing one hand and making love to mine. I twist the key and the engine roars to life, my foot gunning the pedal more than necessary. I let out my breath and stare out the windshield, seeing him out of the corner of my eye and wishing I didn't. 

What the FUCK am I going to do with him? 

I sit there, gunning the engine, trying not to feel him next to me. But I do. I'm acutely aware of how close he is. The hand that gripped me so firmly and tenderly, the only one he has left, is now anchored tightly to the door grip. The mouth that made love to me is ripped and bleeding, and even now I hear him swallow another mouthful of blood, wincing. I close my eyes and try to think. 

I can't let him go. That's obvious. And I can't turn him in. That was never a part of my plan. He'd be dead before sunrise. Never mind the reasons that's not okay with me. The fact is, it's not, so now what? 

Oh God. I sucked his cock. Made LOVE to it. Loved every minute of it. Practically came again myself as I felt it explode in my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, gripping the wheel so hard it hurts. 

And then I remember the note. How vulnerable I was, how needy and pathetic, and how he shot me down and made me beg for less. Made me grateful to get just one more night with him. Not even that. Maybe thirty minutes, if I was lucky. If Krycek wanted it that way. 

It wasn't HIM, I remind myself. Not to me. Then I gasp, wondering if he knew it was ME. I have to look at him, as if I could tell, and when I do, he's trying to make himself as small as possible, curled in on himself and huddled against the door. He shrugs his prosthetic closer, and I can't tell if he knew or not. I turn my attention back to the windshield and put the car in gear. 

We reach the motel without any interaction between us, and I change into the extra shirt I keep in the overnight bag that's always in my trunk for emergencies. The other one's covered in blood. I shove it into the trunk and slam it closed. I leave him in the car with nothing more than a glance, but I'm quick to get us checked in and get the key to a room with an outside door. 

I pull around to the back of the motel, and then get out and come around to his side of the car. Angry at myself for feeling anything but anger, I pull his door open roughly, yanking him half out of the car. He reaches to catch himself, and I see the studs fall out of his bloody grip and tumble to the asphalt. They glint under the dull parking lot lights as he steadies himself again. Feeling unsteady myself, I reach down to unfasten his cuff. Some insane part of me doesn't want to leave them there. They made me feel so good once. It doesn't seem right. I decide they're evidence, and bend down and pick them up carefully with my fingers, one at a time, and slip them into my pocket. They're moist with his blood and sweat. I see him watching me. I dare him to make a comment. He doesn't make a sound, just grimacing as I uncuff his wrist and recuff his hands together behind his back again. I try to ignore the plastic one, yanking him out of the car and propelling him toward the room door. I shove the key in, wrench the door open, then shove Krycek in ahead of me, quickly yanking the door shut behind us. 

Krycek stumbles but doesn't fall, and I let my bag drop to the floor as I look at him in the dark room. I don't turn the lights on. I don't want to see him too clearly, and I really, REALLY don't want him to see me. I just stand there and stare at him, turned halfway toward me, head bowed, breathing harsh. I can't think of anything to say to him. I can think of no way to handle this without exposing my rawness even further than I already have. But I can't just let this go. No way am I going to let him just have this from me. 

"You think you're pretty fucking smart, don't you," I finally rasp out, and I'm a little surprised myself at how dark I sound. 

He gasps, his battered lips parting for a second, but he says nothing. 

"Fucking little WHORE!" I scream, and I know how hypocritical I'm being but I don't fucking care. I hate him so much. Again the thought flits through my brain that he took it so I didn't have to, and I shake it off furiously and stride the few steps between us and shove him again. He staggers sideways but doesn't fall. "How could you do that to me?" I hiss. I'm sinking fast, revealing more of my pain. I can't help it. I have to know. Why? How? 

"Muller," he whispers, his voice thick and lisping, his tongue moving slowly and carefully in his mouth. He sounds incredulous. "Do you think I knew it wazzh you?" He looks up at me sideways, head still low. Submissive. Shaking. He looks scared to death. 

I take a deep breath in and let it out. So maybe he didn't know. Like I didn't know. Like I didn't know about the arm. Is that better or worse? I let my eyes close, and I can smell him there in front of me. Blood and sweat. And I know how his cock smells. Musky sweet. And how it tastes. Heavy and hot and like silken steel, the dagger dragging on my lip. I grit my teeth. The dagger. HIS dagger. The knife-painted cock I was so enthralled with is HIS. Not fair. Not fucking fair. 

"Why?" I moan, and my voice is thickening with my tears again. Tears he can most definitely see and hear now. I shake my head, unable to open my eyes just yet. Why? Why does everything I want never want me back? I spin around so he can't watch me fall apart, covering my eyes with my hand. I honestly don't know how to handle this. How to get past this, to make this okay, to just walk away and go back to my life. After feeling that. After thinking I might be able to have that. Oh God it hurts. In my chest and my stomach and my head, and suddenly I lunge for the bathroom. 

I make it just in time and puke into the toilet, distantly aware that along with the alcohol, I'm expelling his semen from my guts. Oh God. I sob as the last of it wrenches free of my body, then I hang there, gasping and drooling, trying not to fall down. 

"I shhhwear to God I didnnnnknow, Muller," he says softly from behind me. I turn my head to see him standing inside the doorway, looking up from under lowered lashes, head still bowed. He looks like a horror movie, covered in blood, bruised and sweaty. I did that to him. "I nnnuh-nnnever wouldtha..." He breathes out and closes his mouth, wincing slightly, and he doesn't have to finish his sentence. His eyes close as they meet mine, and I turn away and hang back over the toilet. 

He wouldn't have let me suck him. That's what he's saying. That he knows how wrong that is. How very much I would never want to do that. I close my eyes, steadying myself on the tank with my hand. I did want to. I wanted to very badly. I was willing to do anything to be able to. God, it was him all along. My stomach clenches again, and I expel a little more bile into the bowl. 

"I'm ssssso ssssorry, Muller," he whispers, and I wipe my hand across my mouth. 

"You're sorry," I gasp, spitting more into the toilet. "You think that makes a difference? That you're SORRY you let me..." but I can't say it. Can't put words to what happened between us. I stagger over to the sink and run water into my hands, washing out my mouth. I grab a hand towel and wipe it across my mouth, feeling my hands trembling badly as I do. I grip it tightly, furious at him seeing me like this. I squeeze my eyes shut. "I hate you," I grind out, slamming my hand down on the counter, feeling myself sway weakly. "I hate you." It comes out as a whisper. 

"I know," comes his very quiet voice from the doorway. "I shhhwear I didnnnknow, Muller," he says for a second time. "I didnnnknow." 

And suddenly I'm sobbing. Audible, pathetic, open sobs that shake my shoulders and clench my already-aching gut with each breath. I slump down over the sink, still gripping the hand towel tightly, and cry my tears down the drain. I tell myself it's the gin, or the puking...or the weakness resulting from standing up for thirty minutes and fucking him slowly through the wall, coming so hard I felt it in every cell of my body, before sinking to my knees and trying to do the same for him. Oh God... 

I slide to my knees, feeling the hard vinyl bruise them, and sob against the vanity. It's over. I can't pull the parts of myself back together this time. He's finally ripped me to too many pieces. I. Can't. Come back from this. I just can't. And I wish to God I'd let him go. That I hadn't brought him here with me to see my breakdown. That I was having it in private and he was somewhere far away, gloating or licking his wounds or whatever he does when he leaves me. I stop sobbing long enough to wipe my nose and reach into my pocket, fishing out the key to the cuffs. I toss it behind me, hearing it tick softly onto the vinyl. "Get out." I barely have a voice anymore. But he heard me, I'm sure. Just in case, I add, "Go." 

I close my eyes, breath still hitching from time to time, and hear him move behind me. But he doesn't go. I can hear him there breathing, close now. I open my eyes and see that he's gone to his knees right in front of the key, but he's just kneeling there, staring at it. 

I lurch over and snatch it up, pulling myself up on the counter. "Don't want to humiliate yourself rolling around on the floor trying to get it," I rasp, turning to him and staggering over. With one hand, could he even pick up that key? Angrily, I reach over him, down to his cuffed hands and roughly unlock him. He gasps in pain, and I feel the hot, moist air on my crotch. I let out a hard breath, frozen, then swallow a whimper as I feel his lips press against me there. 

"I shoulda known," he whispers against me, murmuring into me. 

I grab the doorframe behind him to steady myself and stand up, and he moves his body in closer, crawling along on his one, now-free arm. I want to back away, to shove him or even kick him and run, but as he continues to mouth me through my jeans, I can't. I just...can't. I stifle another whimper. 

"Fffffuck, I shoulda known," he says again. He inhales deeply, then groans against me and lifts his hand. "Pleazzzh," he lisps. "Oh God pleazzzh Muller." 

I close my eyes, new tears pricking them. I can't acquiesce. But I can't refuse, either. My hips press forward the slightest bit, the only answer I'm capable of. 

He moans into me again, and his hand travels up my leg, shaking as it works at my button and zipper. I can't help him. I'd like to but I can't. I have to use both of my hands to hold me up against the edges of the doorframe. He gets my jeans open and my cock pushes out through the fly, nudging at my gray boxer-briefs. He bends in and places a soft kiss on the cotton-covered head, and I swoon toward him again, this time involuntarily. I NEED to be in that mouth now. I'll cry if he doesn't let me in. I might cry anyway. Hell, I'm already crying. I blink my eyes open and look down. 

He looks up at me, and his lashes are stuck together with moisture, his cheeks wet with it over the bruises and drying blood. And I make myself watch, the wall down, as he slides my cock through the hole in my underwear and takes it in a trembling, gentle grip. 

"No," I whisper it, and reach down and push my jeans and underwear down around my thighs. I don't want anything between us, not even the cotton of my underwear. I wish he was naked, but I can't wait that long. I have to be in his mouth now. 

He gasps hotly as my cock bobs free of all encumbrances, and it bounces softly against his cheek as I resteady myself against the doorframe. I stifle another whimper, then remember it's just him and me. No one waiting to use the booth. And no one to recognize me. I can make all the noise I want. Even the motel is deserted, and we're in a corner unit anyway. I sigh and spread my feet a little for balance. 

Krycek's hand slides around my shaft, so gently it's almost a tickle, and I have to look down and watch him, the wall so unbearably NOT THERE as he takes me in that familiar grip, bending in to place that first kiss on the head that always made me gasp silently. I do it loudly now, letting a small sound escape my throat. It's matched by a tiny grunt from him, and I watch him lick a little precum off his lip before opening his mouth and preparing to take me in. 

Oh God, his tongue. It's a mess. I can see the holes, bloody and creased, torn from where the studs ripped into him as I slammed his face into the wall. And his lower lip, shredded and raw. He doesn't hesitate, sliding his mangled tongue along the underside of my head, wincing a little but not stopping, his mouth closing warm and tight around me and already beginning to suck. 

It has to be hurting him. It can't NOT hurt him, with wounds like that. But the mouth is just as I remember it, reverent and firm, hungry and yielding, and with a groan I sink into it, nails scratching against the wood of the doorframe as my legs tremble and threaten to go out from beneath me. And after a few minutes of feeling him lave and slurp me, suckle and tongue me, he starts to slide his mouth back and forth, the signal that he wants me to take him. Our signal. 

"Oh God," I gasp out, remembering his mangled mouth but so lost in it now that I can't let it matter. But one thing will be different this time. I take my hand off the doorframe, and thread my trembling fingers into his hair. I don't grip it, I just hold his head still, and then I move my hips slowly, dragging my dick across his tongue and then pushing it back in to the back of his throat, moaning. 

He grunts against me, trying to make me go deeper, and I take hold of his hair now, holding him still, and make him take me slow. Careful. Sliding in and out as gently as I can over his mutilated tongue and lips, trying not to slide too deeply. Trying not to let my hips slam me into him, mashing his mouth into my pelvis, grinding my cock down his throat. I moan, high in my throat, and breathe shallow as I continue to fuck him. I move in him with all the control I can muster, shaking as I keep myself in check. And Oh God it's good, as good as it's ever been and so much scarier that I can hardly breathe and I think I'm close to passing out from lack of oxygen. I'm starting to see stars. I keep the strokes slow and shallow, my mouth dropping open on gasps and whines. I cry out as my whole body begins to tingle and even ache, winding up to come. I whine long and high and feel my balls draw up tight, then I yell, jerking, as they pump my climax out over Krycek's tongue. He whines and licks frantically, some of it smearing out the corners of his mouth, smearing his battered lips, as even now, I keep myself shallow and stroke it out carefully. I hear him gulp and slurp and go after every drop, and I feel his one hand grip my thigh painfully. 

Once my orgasm's over, I let go of his head and catch myself against the doorframe again, then realize that's not enough with him still at my crotch. I'm going to fall down. I quickly reach down and yank up my jeans, gasping as my still-tingling cock is roughed up by the denim, and when I'm reasonably covered, I stagger back and sit on the toilet. Not graceful, but better than falling over in a dead faint with my pants around my knees. On top of Krycek. I look up to see him looking at me, his eyes so round and wet and dark and young, so needy and hungry and sad. 

And I don't regret it. Any of it. Not anymore. I can't. I know it's wrong, but I don't care right now. I just know how it feels. How it makes me feel. And I'm not willing to give that up yet. 

I sigh and catch my breath, and he just watches me, doing the same, licking his lips, which I see are bloody again or maybe that's his tongue. Either way, I've bloodied his mouth again. He swallows and licks his red tongue along his lips, working at the corners and getting the last traces of my cum, leaving smudges of red. It's gruesome, and I look away and swallow, then look back at him, unable not to watch him take such pleasure in me. I finally lick my own lips and stand up, fastening my jeans and straightening my clothes, running a hand through my hair. He doesn't move from his position on the floor. I walk over to him and my breath stalls. I bite my lip, then reach down, offering him my hand. "Get up." 

His eyes go wider and his lips part as he reaches up, unsteady and trembling, and takes my offered hand. I pull him to his feet, putting my other hand on his left shoulder to steady him, feeling hot, hard flesh there and wondering where it ends. I realize I'm looking at it, and that we're face to face. I swallow and take my hands away. He's horrible, and he's beautiful, and I feel shame at both thoughts. His shirt is stiff with blood, his chin covered with it, flecks on his cheeks and nose. His jaw is bruised and his lips are obscenely swollen now. Fresh red blood lines them and I watch him swallow some down. 

"Why don't you take a shower," I finally tell him, gesturing behind us. "I think I have a shirt you can borrow." I blink at the intensity of being this close to him after what we've shared. I can smell the blood and my cum on his breath, together. 

He nods and swallows, ducking his head then looking up at me again from beneath his lashes. I step back, letting him past me, and leave the bathroom so he can shower. As he closes the door behind me, I let out a deep, shuddering sigh and sink down onto one of the two beds. 

...... 

I'm standing under the shower, the hot deluge washing away the blood. I can't yet lift my hand to do it. I just let the water carry it away. I almost don't want it to. 

God, it's all gone to hell. 

He's been in my mouth again. I begged him to. All I want is to rule the world but I couldn't stop myself from getting on my knees to him. The man I've been diametricly opposed to from the beginning. Two of the dreaded mile markers shining in my headlights have merged, exponentially brighter, hurting my eyes. Mulder and the man behind the wall. One and the same. All I wanted was the brief respite from my own nature, numb and stoicly purposeful. All I wanted was to leave it all behind when it was time to let go. 

It came as a shock to me that I actually wanted him more. Wanted Mulder. 

The water can't get hot enough. It can't flow down over me thick enough to wash away what I know now. 

God, the whole reason for going to Stimulus in the first place was to get just enough sensation not to turn to stone. To give the humanity that one little out so that it didn't run my life. And now what? Now what have I got left BUT the sick human shit that reviles me?! It's dripping off of me. It didn't take the key Mulder offered. Didn't take the exit, the open door back to whatever was left of me on the outside. It stayed for him. Even though the thought of me between his legs had wrenched up the contents of his stomach, including what was left of me inside him. Even though it might have gotten me killed. 

The want in me...the want that I'd managed not to give one thought to for over two years...the yearning for Mulder's cock in my mouth, drove me forward on my knees. It had me mouthing his crotch like a mindless animal. It had me risking my life just to blow him again. To have HIM. In a moment, I'd become the very slave I've always intended to have beneath me, under my strict rule. And I didn't care. I wanted one thing. Even if it undid years of me. Years of work, pursuit, and discipline. His hard cock loving my mouth again. 

Part of me, most of me, fully expected to feel his vicious backhand knocking me away from the intoxicating smell of his already sated dick. It didn't happen. Mulder didn't move. Didn't retreat to vomit once more, to condemn me as the bane of his existence. Instead, he gasped. And I felt his cock answer my mouth through the barrier of the denim. 

Mulder wanted ME. He let ME open his fly. Let Alex Krycek, invertebrate scum-sucker, pull his cock out. Shit, he took his pants down for me. He was hard for me. Mulder wanted me as much as I wanted him. 

And without the wall... My god, without that between us, our eyes meeting, my hand gripping him, his in my hair, his cock sliding between my lips, painful and slow... 

I lift my face to the pounding water, open my mouth, and let it fill me, turning my head and spitting a mouthful of bloody water and Mulder's semen down onto the shower floor. But it's too late. He can't be washed away. And some molecular change has occured in this bruised and cut-apart body. Some shift. I expect to look down and see pieces of me rushing down the drain, useless. 

I pick up the soap and rip the paper off with my teeth, spitting it out to the side. I lather my neck and chest. My chin and jaw. Aware that even as I wash away the blood, Mulder remains. 

I've been drowning in fear since I first saw him. And not even for the right reasons. I see him and expect physical pain. I expect anger and blame. For him to maybe finally put me down for good. 

I don't know what to do with his sadness. His question, "Why?", as the tears rolled down his face. I don't know what he wants from me. I don't know what I'm prepared to give. Or how much of that is even my choice. 

I have a thousand questions in my head. And I know Mulder has his. Where does the man who's father I murdered and the man whose cock weeps to be in my mouth meet? And which one will be waiting for me in that room? 

Though, the question I least want answered, and the one I can't stand not knowing, is where do the assasin, the scum-sucker, the world dominator and the cocksucker on his knees to his worst enemy and loving it, needing it, meet in me? 

I can't stay in this shower forever. I have to face whatever I've become in his eyes. Maybe he'll let me know who the hell I am now. All I know is everything's turned inside out, and I don't even know if I want it to be any different. 

I turn off the shower and dry myself, shivering without the scalding water cascading down on me. I reattach the prosthetic. God, will he ask me? Will he demand to know how it happened? Will seeing it be the moment when reality throws the ice in his face and turns him away from me for good? Wouldn't that be for the best? 

The towel won't wrap all the way around my waist. I didn't wear underwear tonight. Mulder offered me a T-shirt. But even that is out in the room. I take a deep breath, feeling a kind of roiling chaos deep in my guts that I have no idea how to order. I turn the knob and let the door swing open, then I clutch the bathtowel to my crotch and leave the warm cave of the bathroom. 

Mulder is sitting on the edge of the far bed in T-shirt and shorts, the lights from outside the motel window just barely leaking in around the edges of the heavy curtains behind him. His legs are bare, as are his arms. But he can't feel as vulnerable as I do standing here naked in the light of the bathroom. 

He looks at me, and I swallow. His eyes take in the sight of me, maybe unable not to fall immediately to my shoulder, the stump where it meets the prosthetic. I frown. But he doesn't see it. He squints, swallowing too, exhaling. Then his gaze drops between my legs. Relief floods me for a moment. But as his eyes dart around the towel, over my exposed skin, my thighs, stomach, hips, groin, I can't stop the little rush of excitement. 

It's all over in a matter of seconds. Maybe he puts himself in check, restraining his curiosity. Or maybe it just wanes that quickly. He drops his gaze to the floor. 

I see the shirt laid out on the other bed and walk over to it. I stand in front of it, unsure if I should drop the towel to pick it up and put it on. I feel Mulder turn his head to look at me again. I make myself meet his stare, though with a gulp of apprehension and the intensity of making eye contact now, after everything. 

He sighs shudderingly. Then I hear the bed creak as he rises from his perch and crosses the room to his small bag. He's behind me now and as he rummages I feel both the fear and the heat. Like he's watching me. I turn slightly toward him and catch a quick drop of his head as he then reaches deep into the bag and pulls out a pair of boxer-briefs, grey like his own. As he walks back by, he tosses them next to the shirt. I drop my eyes as he takes his seat again. 

I dress with him in the room. God, he's going to see how long it takes me with just the one arm. He's going to fucking watch. I can't help but check over with him as I draw the too-tight boxers up my one leg first. His eyes are between my legs, unrelentingly gawking at my bare, flacid cock, hanging there in plain view. I see him take in the whole thing from ringed-tip to root. I see him try to see the underside, now not erection-visible. 

Maybe it's just Mulder's morbid curiosity, not desire at all. Of course it's not desire. He would rather eat his gun than put his mouth on my cock again. As quickly as I can, I pull the underwear up my other leg, working them over my butt, over my crotch, and up just covering my hipbones. God, the cotton is hugging my crotch obscenely. I swallow and try to get the T-shirt on as fast as I can. I don't know if Mulder is watching me now or not. 

When I'm finished, I just sit down, breathing shallowly and staring at the mute television, until I hear Mulder clear his throat softly. 

I gasp and look over, unsure what I'll find when I do. He gestures with his chin, indicating the head of the bed I sit on. I swallow and look. He's attached the cuffs to the headboard. One open circle lies waiting on the pillow. He's already even turned down the covers. I take a shaky breath. I hear Mulder's beside me and turn my gaze back to him with a small frown, unsure, afraid. 

"I-" he starts. He blinks, eyes moist and tired. God, he looks so tired. I only now notice that about him. Exhaustion is ready to overtake him any moment. He looks like he feels worse than I do. I'm just bruised from his punches. The bleeding has stopped, and though my mouth aches and stings, I'm not permanently injured, and I just feel a little roughed up. World turned upside down and on the edge of panic, but physically not really all that horrible. 

Not like Mulder appears: done for, drained, bent with exhausted emotion. It makes me blink rapidly, my own eyes stinging at the sight. 

"I don't trust you to stay," he says softly, thickly. I take a breath and look at the restraints again. I hear Mulder let out a soft breath, and look over to see his hand move up on his thigh, gripping the gun loosely. 

I swallow again. 

Slowly, I rise. I blink at him for a moment, watching him breathe evenly. Then I move to the head of the bed, sitting gingerly, the ache in my guts from his punch making me cautious. Except that's just an excuse. It's really the weight of what I'm about to do. 

I fit my right wrist into the open cuff and lie down, waiting for Mulder to come finish what I started. He must know I can't click it into place myself. I'm just hoping this display of acquiescence is enough for him. I blink back unexplainable moisture from my eyes and feel him get up and then near. 

Fear rushes my body. I want to get up and run from the room, not looking back. But when he stands over me, I make the mistake of looking up into his face, tortured like my thoughts. And I exhale, letting go of my need to escape, resolutely remaining still as he bends down and locks the cuff in place. 

He stands over me a moment more. But I see his eyelids growing heavy, his body giving up. He pulls the covers up over me in a gesture so strikingly intimate I gasp. Then he lies down in the bed next to mine, curls on his side facing me, and closes his eyes. 

Mine remain open, watching him, until I can't stay awake any longer, and wrist shackled to the bed above my head, helpless, I fall into a precarious sleep. 

.............. 

When I awaken, at first I don't understand why I have so much room to move. No couch at my back. No arm of the couch pressing against my feet. I stretch and remember I'm in a motel room bed. Then as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I catch sight of the lump on the other bed. 

And I remember. 

I let my breath out slowly and quietly, remembering everything. What it felt like to be in his mouth through a hole in the wall. What it felt like to take him in my mouth, knees scraping on gritty cement, naked at his request. How he took me after, disregarding his mangled mouth, and how I held his hair in my hand and watched myself come down his throat. 

I let out another breath. 

My underwear is ruined from my cock, which I put away so quickly afterward that I didn't notice its disturbing condition. When I was undressing for bed, I noticed the spots on my shorts, and when I pulled them away from my body, I gasped at the bloody, flaccid length of me, curled into the pocket of my boxer-briefs and staining them red-brown. Since Krycek was in the bathroom, there was nothing I could do, and I just tried not to think about it. By the time he came out, I was too tired to do anything but get him cuffed so I could sleep. I didn't care that my crotch looked like the crime scene it was. 

I watch his body lift and fall under the blanket, curled away from me, toward his good arm. He left the prosthetic on, and its movement under the covers is just that little bit out of sync with the rest of his body that makes you aware that there's something wrong. 

Yeah, something's wrong. Everything's wrong. I'm wrong, he's wrong, his body's wrong. But I can't let it go. Not yet. I turn over onto my back, careful not to make any noise and wake him. He keeps snoring, and I spare him a glance and then stare at the water stains on the ceiling, barely visible in the dark. 

Why? Why does it feel so unnaturally good to be in his mouth? Why HIS mouth? Why should that feel any different than the others I've had? I don't know, maybe it's not him at all. Maybe I just haven't had enough men to know how good it can be. I close my eyes against the truth I can't not see. It's him. He's different. He is, as the song goes, so fucking special. 

I sigh quietly, a small pain building in my temples. He wants me, too. He may not like me, may not respect me, sure as hell doesn't agree with me, but there's no faking that look in his eyes. He wants this like I do. Needs it like I do. And wishes he didn't, like I do. 

The last time I saw him, he was rolling off the back of a truck that was careening out of control down the side of a Tunguskan mountain. Seconds later, I went over a cliff in that truck, not expecting to live through it. When I woke up with a gushing head wound, my only thought was to reach cover before I was caught, and I didn't even have the energy to wonder what might have happened to him until I was flying back to the States. 

I figured he was fine. After all, he'd made friends there. He seemed pretty cozy with the camp commander. If they found him, he was in no danger of being tortured, like I was. He was in his element. 

Guess I was wrong. 

He's not fine. Something happened to change him in a way that still makes me shiver. In the days after he rolled out of the back of that truck, he lost a limb. He was maimed. Mutilated. Somebody cut off a big piece of him and he'll never be the same. 

It makes me want to beat the shit out of him. 

What the hell makes him think his way is the right way, when as far as I can tell, it's gotten him nothing but pain? When I found him in Hong Kong, he was a shivering, sweaty wreck. And I know he was locked in that silo for God knows how long. Then he got involved with that militia group in an effort to manipulate me into taking him to Russia, where his reward for his troubles was an amputation. 

And those are just the things I know about. 

I turn and squint at him in the darkness. What the hell is worth all that? I wanna ask him. How can you keep doing this? I blink and swallow, and the real question, the one I'll never ask, floats up unbidden. Why didn't you choose me? I close my eyes and then turn back onto my back. And a very naive, very ignorant, very irritating little voice says very, very quietly in the very back of my mind, maybe he will now. I grit my teeth in the dark. I can't afford to let myself think stupid shit like that. I can't afford to think for one minute that this...thing...between us could ever allow me to trust him. So what if he has a jones for my cock? So what if he's enough of a risk-taker that he'll endanger his life to have it again? All that proves is what I've already realized. He doesn't have a very strong sense of self-preservation, and has a real problem with making horribly bad choices. 

Like sucking my cock? The thought opens my eyes again. He'll probably see it that way. He'd have to. In his eyes, it's gotta be a big mistake, making himself that vulnerable to me. Letting me SEE him on his knees for me, eating my cum like he was born to it. That can't be a good strategic move, no matter how much leverage he's gotten on me, now that I've had HIS cock in MY mouth. After all, I didn't know it was him. And I'd never do that if I did. 

Right? 

I don't even want it, now that I know it's him. That changes everything. 

Right? 

I close my eyes, sighing into the darkness. 

It's not until a couple of hours later, when the watery dawn light starts peeking through the curtain's edges, that I start to wonder if there's a connection between the clinic arson cases and Krycek's presence in D.C. Then, as soon as I wonder if there is, I know there is, and Krycek's sound sleep is about to end. 

I get up and slip into my jeans, and as I'm fastening them he rolls onto his back, blinking awake and wincing as he smacks his lips. All the breath leaves my body. The very energy of the room feels different all of a sudden. 

"I need to talk to you," I tell him, sounding like myself again, except for the usual rasp of morning. I clear my throat and pick up the gun from the bedside table. "I know you were involved with the fires." 

He blinks rapidly, coming awake pretty quickly, and I see his hand jerk convulsively in the cuff, probably aching to stretch, wipe the sleep out of his eyes, scratch his balls. I tighten my grip on the gun. 

"So?" 

He clears his throat, wincing some more as he works his injured tongue in his injured mouth. I firm my jaw against any feeling of sympathy, then decide I might not be able to even understand him if I don't at least give him a drink of water. I turn and go into the bathroom and fill a cup, bringing it out. I walk over, actually holding it out to him for a split-second before I realize he can't take it with his one hand cuffed over his head. I'm going to have to either free him, or hold it up to his mouth for him. I let out a sigh. He probably has to piss, too. I'm sure as hell not going to hold THAT. I swallow as the feel of him in my hand flares to life, unbidden. I squeeze the gun. 

I set the water down on the bedside table next to him. He watches my every move. Then I go to the dresser and pick up the handcuff key and bring it over, standing beside his bed. He looks up at me, and for a moment I feel a sense of power and control that feels better than I want to admit. And for another moment, I want to jerk the blanket away and look at him. Yank down the ridiculously tight underwear he borrowed and grab his dick, pulling it up to see the underside. I clench my jaw and transfer the gun to my left hand, key in my right. 

"I'm gonna unlock you and let you use the bathroom," I tell him, that little thrill of power and control back and making me breathe a little heavier. "And then we're gonna talk." 

He says nothing, just swallowing, it appears painfully, his arm slack above his head, hand relaxed. 

I bend over him and unlock his wrist, then quickly transfer the gun back to my right hand, slipping the key into my jeans pocket. He gingerly lowers his arm, shaking his hand a little and wincing, then starts to sit up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. I step back, giving him room, and he yawns and stretches a little, shrugging his shoulders and adjusting the prosthesis with it. He reaches over with his right hand and rubs at the stump of his arm, just under the shoulder, then stands and walks slowly toward the bathroom. For just a moment, I realize there could be something in there he might use to get the drop on me, and on the heels of that, I realize he won't hurt me. Not that way. Not physically. I swallow and lower the gun as he closes the door behind him. 

......... 

I knew it. The clinic fires. I know I didn't leave any evidence. But Mulder found out anyway. Like he always does. 

I take a long piss and tamp down the panic that I'm about to be interrogated. I have one last bombing in two days. It's the most important part of the job, the lab with the original alien fetus from which they're manufacturing the hybrids and the hybrid clones. I hadn't thought about my appointment, about the job, really. I mean, at first I thought Mulder brought me here to kill me. And when I realized he hadn't, that he still wanted me, and that despite my better judgment I still wanted him, everything else just got swept under the rug. 

But it's tomorrow now. And he clearly intends to put the heat on. Out there is the man I left in a Russian gulag. Out there is the FBI agent I was partnered to in order to sabotage his work and his life. I don't know if his cock can still taste me now. Or if the morning light erased that memory in favor of more pressing business. In favor of the harsh truth of us. 

I flush the toilet and tuck my dick back inside Mulder's underwear, emerging from the bathroom with a cool face and racing heart. 

He's waiting for me, gun in hand. I feel my fat, swollen tongue in my mouth, the evidence of his hatred of me and of his passion for me. I sigh. 

"Sit down," he instructs. 

And only because I don't see any way for my obedience to jeopardize my work or my plans, I do as he's told me and sit on the edge of my bed. 

He stands in front of me, a couple of feet away, arms crossed over his chest, gun resting against his bicep. He's thrown on a pair of jeans. I try not to feel the power differential with him dressed and standing before me, armed. I flash on last night, his cries as he came inside me, his trembling. Gone. 

"What's the connection? Why those fertility clinics?" He starts right in. He's so sure it's me. I swallow and meet his eyes. My blood pounds. My mind says deny. I blink and answer him. 

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mulder." 

He breathes a humorless laugh. He looks down at the floor. Then before I know it, I'm being hit. But not in the face. He sidesteps the wounds he's already given me and slaps me upside my head with his left hand. Then he stands before me, arms down by his sides. 

"Why do you make me do this?" he says, and I don't know if he sounds defeated or coldly enraged. He's hiding it from me. But it's under the surface. I can barely see the war of desolation and intent in his dark eyes. And I'm shocked when, even though it'd be to my extreme detriment, I'm hoping the intent wins. A part of me, sick and self-destructive, is rooting for him. 

I'm so frustrated and alarmed at the inner betrayal, I let it out at Mulder. "I make you do this?" I spit the response in his direction. It doesn't occur to me until it's out that it's the very reaction that might push desolation over to passionate intent in him. 

But still his response stuns me speechless. Mulder firms his lips and then he switches the gun to his left hand and I see his right shoot out toward me. He grabs my left shoulder, right above where they cut off my arm, fingers sinking into my remaining flesh painfully. I gasp, a high noise of suffering squeezed from my throat unbidden, he's gripping me so hard. He shakes me roughly, snarling. "You'd get your OTHER ARM cut off before you'd work with ME!" Then he shoves me backward with enough force to send my far heavier, bigger body sprawling across the bed. 

I take my shoulder in my right hand, sucking my breath in through my teeth, knowing there will be long-fingered bruises there, already forming, and Mulder stalks away from me across the room. "Goddamn it!" he curses, pacing. "Goddamn you, you sick, stupid son of a BITCH!" 

And before I've recovered from the shock of the last assault, he's on me again, this time gun drawn and ready. He holds it to the side of my head hard, pushes it against the side of my skull so hard I can't hold my head up. My eyes squeeze shut and then widen in total disbelief. I'm breathing harsh through my mouth, terrified all over again. I can almost hear the gun firing precognitively, it's that real all of a sudden. 

He's seething at me. "Do you WANT me to kill you?! Is that what you WANT?!" I blink, aware how each moment passing could be my last, that he's finally going to do it. And, gun still trying to make a hole in my head with just the pressure, Mulder screams in my face, "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" 

He gives my head another shove with the gun, and then he walks away again, shaking with rage. 

I have no immediate defense. No words. No bullshit. My mouth won't function to formulate the lies, the denials. And my mind is racing. Circling around one thing. 

What DO I want. 

I want to rule the world. 

I want to have the power. 

I want to make them beg and bleed. 

But who are they? I've always seen the old smoker in my mind's eye...the Syndicate. Anyone and everyone who's ever held that same power over me. 

And the masses. Those faceless lemmings I've envisioned begging me for the vaccine to save their miserable lives. 

As I watch him pacing in front of me, gun clenched in his hand, and I remember him fucking my mouth, behind the wall, and staring down at my face while he sank it into me last night...I have to wonder, and for the first time, where is Mulder? In my vision...in that fantasy of power and rule...where is Mulder? 

Where has he ever been? 

Can't have both. 

The thought strikes me like a blow. I stifle a gasp. 

Can't have it both ways. 

Oh god. 

He was never there. He wasn't kneeling at my feet, not sharing the power at my side. My rule would mean one of two things: That Mulder would forever be on the hunt to kill me. Or that I'd have already killed him. 

I'd never let myself... Never before thought... 

My mouth is parted open on the shock. My eyes are wide, but I see nothing. Nothing but the choice in front of me. I can't rule the world and have Mulder, too. And one of us will have to die in the process. And it will have been my decision. Mine. 

I can't grasp onto this horrible truth. And before I can even try, Mulder's back, the smell of our combined sweat and sex still on him, and he's shoving me again. "What the hell's it going to be, Krycek?" There are angry tears in his eyes. "You made up your mind yet? Can we finally be DONE with this?" 

I can only stare at him above me, can only swallow around my raw tongue, wondering how I got to this place, how the fuck I'm supposed to go on from here. 

And the words come out hushed, no thought, no decision to say them, they're just falling out of my mouth to the floor at his feet. "Hybrid children." I blink. "Doing tests...torture...cloning hybrid children." 

...... 

I just stare at him. 

What? 

"What?" It comes out on a breath, gun hanging loosely at my side again. Desire to use it gone. Thank God. 

I watch him swallow again, and this time his voice comes out more clearly. "The clinics. They were doing tests on children there. Alien-human hybrids." 

His eyes look shell-shocked, his skin white. Is it any wonder? I nearly blew his brains out. I didn't even know myself if I'd pull that trigger or not. 

Wait, alien? 

"You're saying...they're actual alien hybrids?" I ask, not even batting an eye at how easy it is to go from believing Kritschgau to wanting to believe Krycek. 

"Yes." His voice is quiet, carried on a breath. He's still not breathing quite right. He probably doesn't realize I really don't want to kill him. 

"And these clinics...the hybrid children were in these clinics, and someone was doing tests on them?" I stand in front of him now, gun at my side, and get my own breathing back under control. I feel hot and sweaty, dirty and uncomfortable. 

"Not just someone," he clarifies. "Them. The Syndicate. The old man and his network of scientists." His voice is still thin, still labored in his raw mouth. But his words aren't hesitant at all. 

"And you're destroying the labs," I fill in, frowning. "Why." I can imagine a few options, but I don't take anything for granted with Krycek. 

"I was hired, by a man within the group," Krycek goes on. And I see the color returning to his skin, though he's covered with sweat and his voice is still rough, words careful around his tongue. "He doesn't agree with their agenda. He thinks there's another way." 

"Another way?" My brow furrows, but I can't disguise the little bit of hope in my voice. 

"Another alien group," Krycek goes on, rubbing absently at his shoulder. Where I grabbed him. "Enemies of the colonists. They're trying to stop the process, too, and this man thinks our best bet is to ally with them. You know," he says, clearing his throat. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend." 

I take a breath in and let it out slowly. Aliens. Not just one race but two. And a possible way to stop the colonists. It's all real. Every damned bit of it. And Krycek knows it all. 

And he's telling ME. 

I can't breathe. Or I'm breathing too hard. I open my mouth to draw in more air, blinking and feeling light-headed. I close it and swallow, then spot the glass of water on the bedside table. The one I left for Krycek. I step past him and go to it, picking it up and downing it all at once. I set the glass down and it's not enough. I take the glass and walk to the bathroom, filling it up at the tap as I stare at myself in the mirror. 

I'm sweaty and disheveled. My hair's a mess, flat on one side, sticking straight up on the other. My eyes are too bright. Lunatic-bright. And I realize...I have it all. I exhale and nearly drop the glass in the sink. Good thing it's a cheap motel and the damned thing's plastic. 

I have it all. Everything I've ever wanted is on the other side of that half-open bathroom door, waiting for me. All the truths. All the blanks filled in. All the lies exposed. He's giving it to me. I can barely believe it, but I do. He's actually...choosing...me. 

I gulp down the water, then run my hands through my hair, taming it into some kind of order. GOD I need a shower. I haven't bathed since...yesterday morning. Before work and Stimulus and chasing Krycek down an alley and beating him against a wall and then getting off in his mouth and sleeping still covered with the remains of my cum and his blood. I fill the cup up again and the pick the gun back up off the counter. I carry it in my left hand, cup in my right, and go back out into the room. 

Krycek's perched on the edge of his bed, staring at the carpet and still rubbing at his left shoulder. I'd like to feel sorry about the pain I've obviously caused him, but something I did seems to have actually gotten through to him. I've never seen him like this. Like I injected him with truth serum or something. Calm, a little distant even, making no attempts to dodge my questions or doctor his answers. Just straight-out truths. I ask, he answers. Like a switch has been flipped. 

I walk over and hold out the cup, a little of the water dripping off it onto his bare legs. He looks up at me for a moment, and I inhale slowly, pinned by a gaze so deep and dark I feel like I'll drown in it. Then he lets go of his shoulder and takes the cup, draining it in a few wincing gulps. His hand falls to his side, holding it, and he stares ahead at nothing. 

I open my mouth to continue the interrogation, but what comes out is, "I'm hungry. You hungry?" And I hear his stomach gurgle as if on cue. He lets out the softest suggestion of a laugh, and it makes me smile. Then I swallow, the gun too heavy in my left hand. "I need a shower," I say, feeling a little sheepish. After all, he knows why. He IS why. 

He blinks his gaze up to me, and damn it all if I don't have to take another deep breath. We just look at each other for several moments, neither one of us speaking or it seems, even breathing. Then he looks down, and his voice sounds defeated as he says, "I'm not going anywhere." 

I look down at the top of his head, the spiky dark hair I threaded my fingers into, and just nod. I believe him. And if he's lying, there's no fight left in me to get him to stay. I turn and walk over to my bag and pick it up. I very purposefully set the gun down on the dresser, then after a moment's pause, walk into the bathroom. My heart's beating so fast in my throat I can hardly breathe as I nonchalantly close the bathroom door. 

...... 

Mulder is in the bathroom. Door shut. Shower on. Naked. 

I'm in the motel room. Uncuffed. Car keys available. Gun within reach. 

I'm not moving. Like I told him, I'm not leaving. I have to wonder vaguely, if I wasn't in this stupor, if I'd be doing anything differently. All I know is, if I were to do anything, it would probably be to go in there, get in the shower with Mulder, and get him off. 

My body should be screaming. My head should be filling with plans, schemes, half-truths, and getaways. My hand should be stashing the keys and pocketing the gun. My legs should be carrying me out that door and away from him. 

But they're not. I'm not moving, except for the rise and fall of my chest as I breathe. It's all I can do. 

He doesn't take a long shower. Or rather, it doesn't feel like a long time. The door opens, steam escaping, and Mulder, dressed only in a towel and dripping wet still, exits the bathroom. I sip my breath in at the kinetic sight of him. And the skin. 

He spares me a look, going for the leather jacket he wore here, now slung over the back of a chair. When his eyes find me, in the same spot, still here, I see him sigh quietly. Then he digs in the jacket pocket, pulling out his cell phone. I frown as he dials, but he turns to me and gestures with a quick finger to his lips that I need to stay quiet. It strikes my shell-shocked brain as almost funny. Mulder wants me to shut up. I haven't said a word. 

"Hey Scully," he says into the phone. 

I feel my body start with sudden and intense fear. 

But Mulder continues simply, "Yeah, I've got the flu or something. I'm not coming in today." He doesn't look at me, but I think I can feel him wanting to. "Probably not tomorrow either. I'll let you know. Tell Skinner, all right?" 

There's silence while she answers. I feel like the illicit affair. I feel dirty and secret, watching Mulder's nude body, barely towel-covered, wet and flushed from the hot shower. He exchanges a few platitudes with Scully, and I realize something that re-enforces my shock: Mulder's choosing me over his work, too. 

No. Not me. He's choosing the information I have. 

Still, it doesn't stop the deep inhale of assimilation I take...the rush of blood to my untouched cock. 

He ends the call and puts the cell away again in his jacket. He looks at me briefly, biting his lip, then without a word in my direction, he retreats back into the bathroom, closing the door once more. 

I realize I've been holding my breath and let it out in a loud rush. No sooner have I started to relax back into this state of trance while my life deconstructs around me than the door opens again and Mulder returns, holding a bottle of something. He's still in the towel. I don't quite catch what he's telling me. 

"What?" I have to ask. 

"I said, I don't have a second toothbrush. I just have mouthwash. It's probably better than trying to brush anyway." He holds the bottle of green liquid out to me. 

"Do you have any vodka? It'd taste better." The slow, soft words are out of my aching mouth before I can stop them. 

Mulder laughs shortly, quietly. Then he clears his throat and sets the bottle down on the dresser since I haven't reached out to take it. I look up at him and his eyes are gentle, mildly confused. He just nods in the direction of the mouthwash and goes back into the bathroom for a third time, shutting the door again. 

I stare at the mouthwash. Mulder laughed. Sort of. It was so short I'm second guessing myself. I blink at the bottle and then look at the closed door as if I can further understand him if I stare at it. 

I stand and pick up the bottle, taking it to the vanity just outside the bathroom door. And then I do something fatal. I look at myself in the mirror. I don't know whose eyes are peering back at me. I watch the damaged lips part in surprise. Watch the eyes crinkle at the corners as they narrow and the man in the mirror leans forward, closer. 

He looks the same. And he looks completely strange. 

I stick out my tongue and wince. I won't be wearing the studs for a while. I won't be doing a lot of things. I take a deep breath, then matter-of-factly put the bottle between my legs and unscrew the top off Mulder's mouthwash, pouring some into one of the motel's plastic cups. I throw it into my mouth and stifle the sound of pain as I gargle it around, trying to reach all of the raw places. 

I spit it out and pat my mouth on a towel, taking one last look into the eyes reflected back at me. Then I return to my vigil at the foot of my bed. 

It's not long before Mulder emerges again. He's clothed in a charcoal sweater and blue jeans, his hair wet but combed, his face shaved. 

He stands there looking at me, so long I have to drop my gaze. Then he sighs. "There's a Denny's down the road." 

I wait for the rest of it, whatever he's going to say. When I realize he must be waiting for me to say something, I look up again. He's staring at me, blinking. When we've stared at each other for a few seconds, he sighs exasperatedly and shrugs, rolling his eyes. Then he stares at me again. 

"Krycek," he says. "Denny's?" 

He wants to know if I want Denny's? He cares what I want? 

I frown. But I manage a jerky nod before dropping my eyes. Whatever the fuck he wants. I don't want to be running the show. It's horrible. And it's true. I'm terrified to give up control. But it's all I can do right now. The alternative is... Well, it's unthinkable. Which is probably why I never thought of it before today. 

Can't have both. 

Mulder sighs again. "Well, you should get dressed." 

........... 

There's something seriously wrong, here. Well, not wrong, exactly, because how can it be wrong that Krycek's telling me the truth? It's just that...he's so...off. 

He didn't even put his pants on. 

I expected him to do that while I was in the shower, but even after I came out to call in sick, then again to offer him the mouthwash, he just sat there on the bed, staring at nothing. And he's still so pale and sweaty. 

It honestly looks like he's in shock. 

He rises from the bed slowly, and goes to the bathroom where he left his clothes last night. He comes out dressed in his dirty black jeans and my white T-shirt. His jacket's too bloody. It'll need to be cleaned. At least he put shoes on without me telling him to. I honestly wasn't sure he would. I look him over and nod, then slip into my jacket and pull out the keys. He doesn't say anything, and together we leave the room. Before we leave the motel, I stop by the office and pay for another night, not sure what we'll be doing from there. When I get back in the car, I don't say anything and Krycek doesn't ask. We just drive down the street to the Denny's. 

We get seated at a table, and we both pick up menus and begin perusing. I'm starving, and the images of eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, pancakes...it all looks good to me. I'm drooling. The waitress comes, and I order a Grand Slam with double hashbrowns. Krycek orders a milkshake, using a voice just shy of a whisper. 

Shit. Of course he does. 

I lick my lips. And feel guilty about the hedonistic feast I just ordered. And about getting off in his mouth the night before. I shift a little on the bench, remembering it. 

We don't say anything while we wait for the food. I had planned to question him some more, but I feel like I just need to give him a little time. To come back from wherever he's gone. It's crazy, because I don't owe him that. I don't owe him anything. As the waitress lays down three steaming plates in front of me, and a tumbler and a glass of shake in front of Krycek, I remind myself that this man sitting across from me, carefully sipping at his breakfast, gunned my father down in cold blood. It takes the edge off my guilt as I dig into my eggs. 

We finish up our meal, still not having spoken, and I lean back in my seat and spread my legs, over-full. I look at Krycek, still working on his shake, obviously having trouble sucking. Trouble sucking. I look away, swallow, then look back and take a breath. "So, you probably need to...pick up some things," I say, trying to sound casual. Like there'd be no question that he's going to stay with me. That we're going to be together for awhile. That it's all settled. 

He swallows, licks a little chocolate off his lip carefully, and nods. His eyes are still so distant, scared, like he's ready to bolt...or cry...I can't tell which. He does neither. 

"Where are we headed?" I ask him, and he frowns. "To get your things?" I add, arching my brows. No way I'm dropping him off somewhere, or letting him go alone. I'm not ready for that quite yet. 

"Oh," he says on a breath, then, with something that sounds almost like one of his soft, secret laughs, he looks into his shake tumbler and answers, "My apartment, I guess." He digs into the tumbler with a long spoon, using that to eat a bite, and it seems to pain him less. 

I swallow hard. His apartment? I blink. He spoons out more of his shake, moving slowly and deliberately, and I nod as if it's the most natural thing in the world to be going to Alex Krycek's Washington D.C. home. Just me 'n him. Gonna drop by and pick up some things. 

What the hell's going on here? 

"Krycek," I start, and he looks up mid-bite, spoon still in his mouth. He pulls it out and swallows. "Are you..." I stop, feeling ridiculous for asking this, but it needs saying, damn it. "Are you okay?" 

He blinks. He parts his lips and inhales, then closes them and exhales, looking a little panicked. His eyes dart from side to side, and he finally drops his head, looking at his hand in his lap. He whispers something, but I can't hear him. 

"What?" 

"Don't...ask me that," he says, a little above a whisper this time. He doesn't look up. 

I look at his bowed head, the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, and nod slowly. I guess this has taken even more of a toll on his reality than it has on mine. I can understand that. And I'm sure as hell not gonna look this gifthorse in the mouth. "So," I say very quietly, and he looks up at me, head still bowed. "You ready to go?" He nods, and I pick up the check and stand, and he gets up and walks right behind me. 

After paying the check, we get back in the car, and after I start the engine, there's a few minutes of silence. I don't know where we're going. And he hasn't said anything. I look over at him, arching my brows. 

"Oh," he says softly. "Um, do you know where Bruckner Street is? On the South side?" 

I shake my head no. 

"I can give you directions." And then he proceeds to do so, until we're pulling up outside a nondescript older building several streets off the main throughways. 

"Here?" I ask, my breath shallow. 

"Yeah," he answers on a deep sigh. He looks up at the small building. "This is it." 

I nod, and cut the engine, and we both get out of the car and head up the walk. 

The building is smaller than mine, about the same age, maybe a little older. Looks like three stories. Small windows. He leads me through the dim lobby and back to the elevator, and I can't help but look all around me, trying to discern truths about Krycek from the decor in his building, while we wait. We get on, and he presses the 3. It lurches a bit and we ascend to the third floor. He steps out, looking at me once to make sure I'm following (as if I wouldn't!) and then makes his way to number 35. He pulls out a key and unlocks the door, then pulls out a small digital device and runs it over the lock, glancing at me once. Additional security, I'm sure. He must be satisfied with the results of the scan, because he turns the knob and opens the door, entering just ahead of me and stopping just inside. 

And I can't draw breath as I step across the threshold of Alex Krycek's apartment. 

.......... 

It feels alien to have his presence at my back as I walk into my apartment. 

Alien... What a sick joke. I wasn't trying to be funny. It's just that I feel the chill creeping up my neck, and the fact that I'm unarmed has the panic returning, a slow, sweaty curl of nausea in the pit of my stomach and an inability to breathe properly. 

It's just Mulder, I try telling myself. 

Just Mulder. 

Now that's funny. 

Fox Mulder is IN my APARTMENT. I hear him close the door behind himself, and the air in the room seems to evaporate, creating a vacuum and a whistling hush in my ears. 

I walk quickly toward the only bedroom in the apartment, leaving Mulder alone in my living space. My mind reels with all that he could see...all he could find if he cares to look. And Mulder does care to look, I'm sure. 

I grab a duffel out of the closet and start packing clothes. And if before my ears were deaf to anything but my own heartbeat, now they're hyper-sensitive to every sound he makes in the next room. 

I throw in some sweatpants. I hear the click of what can only be CD cases. I try to remember what kind of music I own. I've gone so blank to my own life...blank to the patterns I'd laid. I grab a T-shirt and force myself to remember. 

Marilyn Manson, of course. Nine Inch Nails. Rob Zombie, Garbage, Pink Floyd, Depeche Mode, Gravity Kills... As the clicking continues, I try not to picture Mulder's face seeing the dark and sometimes violent cover art. I take a shaky breath. I don't know if he'll find them morally reprehensible or not. I don't know where Mulder's line is drawn. 

And I've never had a line. Never conceived of living by one. Never known how even if I'd wanted to. And now Mulder's line is my line. And I have no idea where that is. On a shaky breath, two more T-shirts go into the bag. 

A disturbing silence fills the space. Then his boots scraping on the floor...then the sound of his steps, reverberating through the hardwood. He's moving. I squeeze my eyes shut and pull down a pair of black jeans from their hanger. 

The creaking of a door. Kitchen cabinet. I sigh, realizing there's so much more than food to find. I have guns stashed all over my apartment. There's one in the kitchen, one in a drawer beside the couch, one in the bathroom, one under the floorboards near the window. God, they're everywhere. How many has Mulder found so far? 

Pair of blue jeans... 

A few more cupboards open and close. Next, the refrigerator. I keep to my task. Navy turtleneck, black sweater, thrown into the bag. 

I hear him moving again, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He's moving slowly, each footstep measured. Is he in front of my desk yet? Will he open it? Will the guns there, three different kinds and styles and sizes for different 'jobs'...will they make him hate me some more? 

Socks. Underwear. Several pairs of each. As my hand falls on my other black leather jacket, I hear it. Slowly the desk drawer opens and I'm perfectly still, hand resting on the jacket's left shoulder, head turned toward the small sound, lips parted and breath scarce. 

What have I done? 

There's complete silence from the other room. The sound of Mulder's gaze taking it all in. All lined up neatly and ready for my hand to wrap around them and pull them out for a hit. 

I wait to hear the drawer close. It's several long moments. I hear it slowly slide back into place, and then I take the jacket off the hanger and put it on, finally covering up the prosthetic from view, firming my jaw. I grab a few things from the bathroom, distracted by not being able to hear Mulder now. Mulder...in my apartment... Will he turn the computer on and view as many files as he can before I come back? Will my return even deter him? Wasn't it my silent agreement that everything I have is his to know when I brought him here? 

What was I thinking? 

I was finally thinking the unthinkable. 

Can't have both. 

And then I wasn't thinking. Couldn't think. Could only think enough to direct him here...to get on that elevator...to scan the lock. I was only thinking enough to realize I wasn't thinking clearly, but that it didn't seem to matter. 

My world is fucked and there's nothing I can do about it anymore. If Mulder wants to have my life at his feet, my blood on his hands, my information in his head, my proof in his guts, my naked truth...he'll have it. I can't stop it anymore. 

With that thought, the overwhelm like a numbing agent in my veins, I zip up the duffel and make my way back to the living room. 

He's standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. He looks up when I come in. "Got everything?" he asks. 

I squint, swallowing. "That depends," I tell him cooly, feeling my life slipping in around me like so many ghosts, whispering for my return. 

"On what," he says, equally controlled. 

Something about his measured tone breaks something free in me, reminds me of my choice, the unthinkable outcome of choosing anything other than Mulder. I breathe in deep. "There's one more lab." It's a freefall I can't pause or rewind or stop. And there's no ground down there. Only Mulder's fixed attention on me. 

....... 

It wasn't the joyride I anticipated. I don't know why I thought it would be. I guess I wasn't thinking about how complicated everything has become, now that I'm working with Krycek, rather than just trying to catch him. If he was just the enemy, the perpetrator, going through his apartment and building a profile based on the evidence would be thrilling, satisfying. Instead, I feel nauseous and sad. Helpless. Hopeless. 

Guns. Everywhere. Tucked into every conceivable place, so they're never out of easy reach. Small guns, big guns, semi-automatics, and silencers. And knives. Several of them. Varying sizes, also varying locations, and none of them for cutting steak. 

Reality's a bitch. 

And along with the evidence of what's there, is the evidence of what's not. No trace of humanity. No pictures, no color, no books on the shelves, no rugs on the floor. Nothing to suggest creativity, sensitivity, or even an acknowledgement of beauty. The only art to be found is that on the CD covers, and it's almost all violent and jarring. Alone, it would mean nothing. Plenty of people listen to Marilyn Manson. Millions, actually. Millions who have never taken a human life. 

But Krycek has taken human life. Many of them. On a regular basis, by the looks of things. As a matter of course. So what he sees, feels, thinks about when he stares at the disturbing imagery is very, very different from what the average rebelling teenager gets out of it. 

No dishes in the cupboard, save for paper. No throw pillows or afghans on the dark green, nondescript sofa. I didn't even see any videos, just an average-sized TV and a relatively nice stereo system. What does he do for leisure? How does he unwind? DOES he unwind? 

I know about his sexual proclivities. At least, to a limited extent. I don't know how often he went there or what other types of sexual interaction he had and with whom, but the anonymous, meaninglessness of glory-holing implies something that does nothing to put my mind at ease. 

And yes, I know I was there, too. And I'm willing to admit what that says about my own state of mind at the time. And it doesn't make me feel any better about myself. My world would probably have never intersected with that part of his if I hadn't been making such questionable choices. 

And I wouldn't be here. 

God, is nothing simple? 

So, in stepping away from my usual sanctimonious high road, trying to find solace for the screaming of my soul, I found common ground between myself and Krycek. And for some unknown reason, that seems to have led to Krycek choosing a higher road, bringing him closer to the middle ground, too. 

Where we meet. And where we have to decide where to go from next. 

Well, anonymous sex in a dirty back room is one thing, but I won't slip so far off the high road that I find myself in the muck Krycek usually wallows in. So the question remains, how far up the high road is Krycek now willing to go? 

And why? 

When he comes out of the bedroom wearing black leather, duffel bag full of God knows what slung over his shoulder, I'm confronted by the Krycek I've known and hated. I've seen the evidence of the limits of his involvement in the human race, and now he's standing in front of me, looking less of shell-shock and more of the smooth operator I'm used to. I'm reminded how incredibly precarious and dangerous this situation is. How little I know about what's really going on in his head. 

"Got everything?" I try to let him know with the tone of my voice that I'm aware he could be heavily armed at this point. I'm not comforted by his reply. 

"That depends." And sure enough, his voice is cool, controlled. I sigh, feeling things slide back into uncomfortable familiarity. 

"On what?" I return, equally cool. 

"There's one more lab," he answers, after a deep inhale. 

And the words slide the final tumblers into place, locking us into our respective positions. 

"What do you mean?" I ask, firmly grounded in my interrogator's voice. 

He swallows. "One more lab I'm supposed to hit. The big one. The one where the original alien fetus is held." 

I let out my breath through parted lips. Actual evidence of extraterrestrial life. In Krycek's hands, and so possibly in MINE. "And what are you going to do with the fetus?" I ask him, trying to keep my voice steady. 

"Give it to the man I'm working for," he answers, without a pause. "The one I told you about." 

I inhale and exhale, seeing my proof snatched out of my hands and given to someone else before I've even gotten to hold it. I'm quiet a moment, considering my options. 

I want to know more about the man Krycek's working for. 

I want to get my own hands on that alien fetus. 

I don't want to push Krycek so hard that I push him away. 

Which brings us to the real question. Why is Krycek suddenly so cooperative and just how far is he willing to go with me? 

I feel my eyes narrow with suspicion. He's got to have an angle. Krycek always has an angle. Krycek never does anything without there being something in it for him, and usually he's playing all sides against each other. 

Which means he's playing me. I spread my feet apart a little further, taking an intentional power stance. I see it register, and he squints, looking uncomfortable. 

"What is this?" I inject it with my suspicion and banked anger. 

He blinks. I wonder if that's intentional, his response to any uncomfortable question, giving him time and the appearance of innocence, confusion, and just real honestly, beauty to the point of distraction. 

"Whuh-what?" It comes out on a breath, sounding confused. 

Yeah, right. 

"I mean, what is this, Krycek?" I repeat, angrier by the second. I uncross my arms and gesture around us with my arms. "This! Your apartment! Your sudden need to answer all my questions and show me all your dirty little secrets! What the hell is going on here?" 

His lips are still parted, and he's breathing harder now, looking around himself at the aforementioned surroundings. His mouth closes, he looks at the floor, his eyes close, and I watch him swallow painfully. He blinks his eyes open, squinting. His voice comes out quiet and small. "Isn't this what you want?" 

"Goddamn it!" I yell, fed up with his theatrics. "Of course it's what I want! That's the point! Since when do you give me what I want?" I'm acutely aware of the gun in my own jacket pocket, swinging heavily as I put my hands on my hips, close enough to grab it should I need it. 

He starts a little at my outburst, lips parting again. His eyes are going rounder and his breathing is becoming more erratic. 

Great performance. 

His mouth starts to form a word, then stops, and his eyes close again, chin dropping. And I see a fine tremor work its way through his body. Can he fake even that? I suppose he can. He's good enough. 

"I don't know what to say," he finally answers, barely above a whisper. I'm not even sure I heard him right. 

"What?" I snap, taking a step in. 

His head snaps up, and I can't help the shock I feel at the glimmer in his eyes. "I don't know what to say, Mulder!" he yells back. "I don't know what you want from me!" He firms his lips, and I would swear they're trembling. 

"I just want the truth!" I tell him, trying not to be taken in by his act. 

"I'm trying to give it to you!" he yells, and the thickness of tears is obvious, as well as the shaking of his body. It's becoming more than noticeable. "I'm trying-" he starts, but it chokes off in his throat, turning into a sob. He firms his lips and ducks his head, eyes squeezing tightly shut. 

I let out a surprised breath through parted lips, trying to assess. If he's acting, he's even better than I thought. Which is entirely possible. But the fact of the matter is, he IS giving me what I want, so what do I have to be so angry about? Would I rather he was playing his usual games, lying and dodging, twisting his answers so they weren't really answers at all? Do I want him to be a slippery little shit because that's what I'm used to and what I know how to deal with? So I can just shove him around and hit him, hurt him and despise him? 

So I can just keep on hating him? 

Shit. I duck my own head, staring at the half-inch layer of dust on his wood floor. 

Do I want to keep on hating him? 

Do I? 

I close my eyes, remembering all the guns. They certainly make the job easier. Show me what kind of human monster he's been. Remind me of how many lives he's ended, make me think of how many more he's maimed, including my own. 

God. But do I really want to hate him? 

I think of him, needy and yielding on his knees in front of me. Gentle and urgent, making me feel better than anyone ever has in my whole life. His mouth on my hand through the hole in the wall, giving me a kind of focused attention and yes, let's face it, adoration, that I've never gotten from anyone else. 

What it sounds like when he lets that tiny, soft laugh escape. What he looks like when he smiles for even a fleeting moment. 

Shit. I put my hand over my eyes. 

If I hate him, it's not going to work, this idea of mine to work together. If I hate him, I'm certainly not going to bring out whatever tiny little bit of redeemable good might be hidden deep down inside him. 

I sigh. It's the sex that started all this. That gave me an excuse not to hate him. To want to be with him. Which changed how we responded to one another. How I responded to him. From hard punches and accusations to soft caresses and sounds of appreciation. 

Which might have, just maybe, changed how HE responds to ME. 

Oh God. 

But what if I'm wrong? What I'm being taken for a ride? Used in some way, manipulated in some manner I don't see yet? 

But...Oh GOD. What if I'm NOT? 

What if something HAS changed? What if...Oh God, what if all it really took was for ME to make a different choice, to stop seeing just the liar, the murderer, the traitor, and due to pure chance, see something beautiful, something amazing, something so fucking special that I was unable to resist its attraction, behind all the violence and lies and cold, heartless manipulations? 

I feel tears squeeze out and wet my palm where it's pressed against my eyes. 

And how can I take the chance that this isn't for real? 

As I take in a slow, deep, shuddering breath and let it out, I realize I can't. 

I have to give him the benefit of the doubt. I have to follow this...something...that has changed my feelings for him from hate to...what? Fascination, I guess. Attraction, definitely. All I know is that he's so much more than I ever thought he was. And he's my chance to finally have everything I've always said I wanted. 

Maybe even more than I've ever let myself dream. 

I wipe away the moisture from my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath. I've made my decision. I have to follow this new thread and see where it's trying to lead me. 

I have to believe him. I have to trust that things have changed for him as much as they've changed for me. 

I swallow, and take my hand away from my eyes, raising my face. 

Krycek's head is still bowed, his eyes closed, as he stands in his living room with his bag slung over his shoulder, waiting. Waiting for me to decide where we go from here. I take a deep, steadying breath. 

"You're right," I tell him, my voice coming out embarassingly hoarse. I clear my throat. 

His face lifts, a frown creasing his forehead. Well, actually, it mostly creases the bridge of his nose. It's kind of...cute. Shit. 

"So," I go on, trying to escape from the immensely thick tension in the room. "Can I meet this guy, the man you're working for?" 

Krycek just stares at me, like I've grown a second head. 

"Well, can I?" I try again. 

He blinks again. His lips part slowly. "I'm...right?" he asks, frown deepening. "I'M right?" he says again, putting emphasis on a different word this time. 

Not knowing how to respond, I just close my mouth and swallow. 

His eyes narrow further. "Whaddya mean, I'm right?" he asks, sounding as suspicious as I did a moment ago. "What...what are you doing to me?" 

And suddenly, I get it. And it's so damned funny that I start laughing. First low and quiet, then, as the full enormity of the situation hits me, loud and doubling over slightly. 

"Mulder...?" comes his terrified voice. He sounds a little pissed, too. 

"Kuh-Krycek," I get out, still laughing. "Don't you get it?" I have to take a breath, and he just stares at me, still looking scared. 

"Get what?" he asks quietly. He obviously doesn't. And he really does sound scared. 

It sobers me somewhat, but I'm still smiling as I explain. "I don't trust you when you're nice to me, and obviously, the minute I stop being a prick to you you're just as suspicious!" I start laughing again. 

I watch his face as the fear dissolves into puzzlement, then finally, after he gives it a moment to sink in, his lips smirk up in a half-grin and I hear that soft laugh. It's followed by a huge sigh, and I nod to let him know I understand. And the tension that I was about to drown in before is suddenly gone, and I feel like we've taken the first, shaky steps toward something that might someday be called...friendship. 

....... 

When we get back in Mulder's car, he doesn't start the ignition right away. He puts the key in but doesn't turn it. Instead he sits back, his fingers pinching his bottom lip. I sneak a glance at his expression, soft and thoughtful. His eyes, bright. I sip in my breath when, without warning, he reaches across to the passenger side and flips open the glove box, retrieving the gun I had on me at the club, the one that's been held hostage in his car ever since. 

My first thought is that he's realized with me uncuffed, the gun is in too easy reach for me. When he reaches underneath his seat where he stashed the clip and then slams it home, I frown. He doesn't hesitate, handing over my weapon. I do hesitate in taking it. He doesn't look at me, though I'm looking at him, trying to gauge if this is a test of some sort. 

I reach across my body and take the gun. Neither one of us says anything while I lean forward and stash it at my lower back again. Mulder just starts the car and puts it in gear, pulling forward and away from my apartment. I stifle the feeling that wants to arise. It's a feeling I'm not used to. One foreign to me. It's almost the same as seeing and hearing Mulder break into laughter right in front of me. Almost. It's in my chest, warm and kinetic. Like too much blood, moving too fast, but it feels good. I get myself back on track with a deep breath. 

"I don't know how he'll feel about your involvement," I tell Mulder, squinting in the sun I don't often find myself out in. The trees flying by out my window look unnatural in the harsh light, without their shadows. 

I turn to see Mulder nod slowly, his bottom lip now sticking out in consideration. My gaze drops to it, staying there until he pulls it back in and swallows. 

"Do you have your cell phone with you?" he asks me. 

I blink. "Yeah." 

He spares me a quick glance. "Call him." 

I sigh and then pull my phone out of the pocket of my jacket. I dial the number and wait. Mulder merges onto the interstate and speeds up. A man answers. 

"Put him on," I instruct, and Mulder breathes deeply beside me. 

I wait for the old Englishman to come to the phone. "What is it, Alex?" he clips impatiently. 

I take a deep breath. "Fox Mulder wants to meet with you." 

I feel the man next to me, tense and waiting. He grips the wheel tightly in his hand. 

The Brit's response isn't quite what I expected. A brief pause of thought. Then, "Be at the corner of 14th and Laurel in one hour." At my stunned silence, he goes on. "He's with you, is he not?" 

"He...yes," I answer. 

"Very good, Alex. I'll see you both in one hour." Then the phone clicks dead. I bring it down from my ear, hitting End with a frown. 

"Well? What did he say?" Mulder asks. 

I look over at him trying to split his attention equally between me and the road. 

"The meeting's in an hour," I tell him. 

And my frown can't exist under the satisfied smirk Mulder is wearing. My lips twitch, and I turn my head to look out my window. 

... 

We're back at the motel now. It's been night for a few hours. It's getting late. I've finished my pizza, and Mulder is working on his last slice slowly, engrossed in the papers, maps, and plans spread out over his bed. 

The meeting with the Brit took place in a condemned building, with the three of us standing in the shadows in the middle of the room, streams of light spilling in all around us, not quite touching our dark clothing. 

Mulder asked his questions, getting some answered and some dismissed, dodged. 

"Where are the hybrid kids now?" 

And the old man gave him an answer I didn't even have up until then. That the children were taken to a special boarding school equipped to educate and care for extraordinary kids. I don't know if it was the truth. Mulder had just nodded, and I could tell he was weighing the sincerity of the answer as well. 

He asked about the fetus and the Englishman's plans for it. 

"It's a bargaining chip," the old man said slowly, precisely. 

"For what?" Mulder asked. 

"For whatever might come up," was the only answer. 

I just stood between them, to the side, and kept my head low. 

The Brit told Mulder about the resistance, the rebel aliens, a whole other race that was prepared to fight colonization. 

"Is this race peaceable?" Mulder asked, and a cold stone settled somewhere in my throat. 

The Brit's answer was a lie and I knew it. "We don't really know anything about them, other than that they oppose the colonists' plans as we do." 

I expected Mulder to look to me for confirmation. Actually, with every question the old man answered, I expected Mulder to turn to me to see my reaction. He never did. But the worst part was when Mulder turned to leave at the end of the meeting, and the old man's eyes found mine in silent warning. I knew exactly what his look meant: don't tell Mulder about the rebels' true nature or he WON'T ally with us. And that's pretty much what Mulder had done before the close of the meeting. 

"Can we expect your friendship in this, Agent Mulder?" the man had asked. 

Mulder had swallowed, his face a mask of calm. "Let's just say...I'm not your enemy." 

It was only then that Mulder looked at me. I held his gaze for a moment, chest aching unexplainably, before he blinked back to the other man. 

Walking out the door with the Brit's stare following me out, I felt nauseous. I didn't know, and still don't know, what the right decision was. But I kept my silence. And Mulder hasn't yet asked me about the veracity of the old man's statements. 

After the meeting, Mulder wanted to gather all the information I had on the lab we were going to hit. We stopped by my truck with the fertilizer and equipment in it. I expected Mulder to back out, seeing it all. Instead, he seemed to get further invested, taking careful inventory and asking pertinent questions. 

And he liked the truck. A lot. 

It was strange and exhilarating to show him and experience the warm wave of his quiet approval. Approval. The ambient truce between us solidifying with each moment. 

We went back to my apartment and got the files on all the labs. And I got the extra clips for my gun I'd felt best left behind before. Mulder watched me stow them in my pockets and swallowed but said nothing. 

By the time we were back in the car, it was dusk and we hadn't eaten since Denny's that morning. We'd nearly reached the motel when my stomach started to growl. 

"Pizza all right with you?" Mulder had asked, taking the corner that put us in the parking lot. 

He parked in the space right outside our room and looked at me. His face was relaxed and open. I blinked and nodded. 

On the phone on hold Mulder had lowered the mouthpiece to ask me, "Anthing you don't like?" 

I swallowed. I cleared my throat. "Onions." 

He nodded, and a few moments later I listened to him order a large combination. "Minus the onions, please," he finished. He looked at me then for a long moment, and I met his eyes. When he looked away it was to complete the order and hang up. 

Now he's eating cheese off his fingers while he reads over the information on the hybridization project. 

"Do these kids really possess every known psychic ability?" 

He's looking down at the paper, so I don't know if the question is rhetorical or not. 

I answer truthfully, quietly. "I don't know." 

He shakes his head, looking at me now. "It's incredible, Krycek." Then his head's back down in the paper, eyes skimming faster than most speed readers I've heard of. 

An hour later, he's still shuffling through all the information. He's kicked his shoes off and they're littering the floor between our beds. His socks are off, too, and I can't help but glance at his toes, wiggling from time to time in a way that seems completely unconscious. 

Shit. 

It's getting really late. 

He surprises me by standing and stretching. He comes down to the end of his bed, leafing through the scattered mess, looking for something specific. 

"Have you seen the...?" He aborts and tries again, snapping his fingers. "The, uh..." I wait patiently. "The map!" he finally gets out. "The map of the West Virginia lab." 

I slowly stand from where I've been sitting most of the night at the small table. He's turned away from me. I don't know where his map is. I don't really care. 

"Nevermind, there it is," he says, yawning. He takes it, stretching again, and then lets it float right back down onto the bed. 

"Tired?" I ask, my voice barely more than a soft, low rumble. But my pulse is strong. 

He turns to me, smiling crookedly. "Yeah." 

I look down, then up again under my lashes. "I don't think I can use my mouth tonight." 

The only light on in the room now is the one by his bedside and it's shining from behind him, but I can still see his expression. It's blank. Utterly not there. I frown, trying to see some reaction to what I've said. I've started to blink self-consciously. I look at him for a long moment, waiting for anything. A look. A gasp. A flicker of what he's thinking or feeling. 

The silence stretches so long it's unbearably awkward. I can't take it anymore. I start to retreat to the bathroom, the humiliation and hurt beginning to heat my neck and face. I blink and look down, ready to walk past him as quickly as I can to get a closed door between us. 

I'm nearly past when I feel his hand, soft, on my right wrist, stopping me. I look down at it, gasping. His hand shifts lower, thumb stroking down the inside of my wrist, fingers caressing mine. I watch and feel his hand slowly stroking mine, thumb brushing deftly over my open palm, between my own thumb and index finger, over my knuckles. 

I lift my gaze to his, blinking lazily now, cock going slowly erect. He's looking at me, hand still stroking and rubbing mine. I read him loud and clear now as though he spoke. He wants my hand. 

I breathe deep, shuddering, and Mulder pulls me gently over to his bed, turning and sitting on the edge. 

Silently, I drop down to the ground, on my knees in front of him. I see his open-mouthed gasp. His eyes go dark as river stones. I reach for his button and zipper, pulling his fly open easily. I let his eyes go, dipping my head down, bent over his crotch, and I start to kiss the full cotton pouch of his underwear. It's twitching underneath, coming alive. I groan, my eyes filling with tears of intense want. He smells the same. That sweet-salty hot I salivate to get my mouth around. I grunt, working my hand inside the pouch to touch the warm, growing flesh, pulling at it to get it free for me. 

Mulder moans above me. He's already shaking. His hand touches my head, running over my hair once. Then he falls back on the bed, papers flying everywhere. He abandons himself to me. I feel it. Feel him give me his beautiful cock. 

Before I can starting moving my hand on it, before I can just get my lips on it for the taste I've come to need, Mulder lifts his hips and pulls his jeans and underwear down his thighs. 

"Off," he breathes. And as I obey and pull them all the way off his legs and throw them aside, I hear him pulling his T-shirt up and off, hear the papers shuffling all around him. And then Mulder is lying naked amidst his maps and plans, spreading his legs for me. 

I take his massive hard-on in my hand, aching to just open my mouth over it and slide it to the back of my throat. Instead, I press my face to it, pulling on the root and working his cockhead against my cheek and lips. I wet my lips with the tip of my tongue and drop my mouth to his ball sac, nudging and mouthing while I stroke my hand up and down his cock, squeezing up under the head with each pass. 

The sound of papers scattering to the floor punctuates Mulder's keening cry of pleasure. Whenever he makes that sound, I have to grunt. I have to growl. I have to work him harder, a little faster. I've got my hand all over his cock, wrapping tight around the red-purple root and pulling up the dark, full shaft, moving the flushed skin along the towering muscle. 

I bury my face under his balls, breathing in the nether scent of him, the sweaty, closed-off place I want so desperately to open with my hungry tongue. I moan quietly in frustration, wanting to lick his asshole, fill my mouth with his balls, choke on his long dick. 

His hand slides through the papers, down the bed, finds my head, my hair. He grips it so tight his fist shakes. I squeeze my eyes shut as two small tears leak from the corners and down my face, down Mulder's inner thighs. 

His hand loosens and tightens. Loosens and tightens. I lift my face to find the split of his tapered cockhead, kissing as thirstily as I can manage without ripping my tongue up some more. I open my mouth and close my eyes, hugging the tip of his cock between my lips, mouthing it while I jack the length below. 

Mulder's warm, sweaty hand strokes me, fingers threading through my hair while I work him. He's groaning continuously now. God, I love the sound! I stroke it hard and fast in answer, mouth hovering over the hole to catch his semen when it floods over. I'm shaking. I'm grunting. I'm ready. 

Mulder throws his other arm over his eyes, other hand making a trembling fist in my hair again, and his hips start to pump off the bed. I lift my mouth, open, and jack it out of him. The first spurt of it hits my top lip and I moan, opening wider. Mulder is groaning with every jet that hits my lips and face. I hold his cock still under the head and lower my mouth, moving with Mulder as best I can, and finally latch into his cock again with my lips, taking the rest directly into my mouth. He cries out above me, "God" and "Shit" and unintelligible words of straining completion. And then, "Kkkkkruh..." I gasp as his cock continues to empty up into my mouth. 

His hips lower back to the bed, his ass muscles finally going lax. I follow him with my mouth, gently licking the last of his cum into it and swallowing. I kiss down his blood-dark shaft, fingers reluctantly loosing their sweaty grip around it. His dick falls to his hip under its own weight, and I press one last open-mouthed kiss to his lightly furred base and empty balls. 

He takes a long, shuddering breath above me. His hand slowly lets go of my hair. I hear him swallow, and then try to catch his breath again. 

He starts to sit up and, afraid of the nearness now that it's over, I get to my feet, waiting by the side of his bed, unsure if I should now crawl into my own. 

Mulder sits all the way up and my lowered eyes can't help but linger over his cock between his legs, still not soft. It's staring at his cock that I start to see his hand move by his side. He lifts it, hesitates, and then rests it against my waistband, near the fly. 

I suck in my breath and hold it. And that's when I hear his own breath, soft, trembling, and shallow. 

He scoots forward, toward me, and I instinctively take a step back. But his hand makes a fist in my waistband, stopping me, easing me back in. I frown down at him even as my erection jumps at the suggestion. 

He blinks, but his eyes never leave the enormous bulge in my jeans as he begins to unbutton them, then to unzip them, his nervous fingers slipping on the metal. 

"Mulder," I whisper. And it's like he doesn't even hear me, like my mouth and my words are far away from him now. 

I feel the zipper slowly open over the push of my cock. Mulder then takes my jeans and underwear in his hands and begins to pull them both down my thighs. They pull my cock downward, caught, until Mulder slowly pulls them down far enough that it springs free in front of him. He gasps, and I bite my lip, frowning intensely. 

He made it clear that this...sucking me...was something he would have never done had he known. And yet, he's reaching out for me, eyes round and dark. His fingers, just the tips of them brush over the ring at the tip, and I remember that sensation through the wall, electric and sudden. I shiver. His breathing becomes a little harder, a little deeper. He touches it again, this time letting his finger drag over the ring, bending my cock down slightly with the pressure, finally letting it spring back up, the ring swinging from its two holes. It's my turn to gasp. 

Mulder licks his lips and takes my dick in his hand, right up under the thick head. He lifts it gently stretching it up a little and tilts his head slightly, bringing the tattooed dagger into full view. 

And before I know what's happening, Mulder is sliding to the floor in front of me on his knees. I start to breathe hard, part of me almost unwilling to see him like that before me. It nearly hurts. But the other part...the other part has already grown to full length in his hand, under his hot gaze, and stands up on its own, ready. 

Mulder looks...God, he looks beautiful. He looks mesmerized. As though he's unaware of anything other than my cock in his face. His eyes light up and he licks his lips again. He's trembling badly. My cock hurts to feel his mouth. 

He takes me at the base, hand tight around the hilt of the knife. And then he bends in, slowly, lips parted. I feel his breath first, fast and scared. And then his soft, warm tongue, starting from the bottom of the dagger, not the base of my cock, but the base of the blade itself...Oh God...and he takes a long, slow lick up the knife's edge. 

"Ssshhhhh..." I start, wordless. Speechless. It's the knife. He wants the knife. My blood rushes down to my cock and pounds through my veins, fueling my desire. He gets off on the knife. Of all people, Mulder, the good, the righteous, wants to go down on my blade. 

The thought's barely registered when he dips his head again and lays the flat of his tongue against the flat of the blade and drags it up to the point once more, eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy. 

Fuck! Oh fuck. I'm panting. I'm trembling with lust myself. But he doesn't even notice. Doesn't look up. He just takes lick after slow lick covering every inch of the knife with his tongue strokes. I'm watching him do it. I see the fear. God, the guilt. But I look between his legs and I see that his penis has gotten hard again. So hard it's dripping. My eyes roll in my head, my lips parting on an indulgent sigh. If Mulder is exploring his dark side, his filthy little shadow...God, I'm not strong enough to stop him. 

And I don't want to as he continues to lap up the blade, a little faster now, abandoned to his need. He winces, whining, and I half expect to see the blood flow from his mouth and down my cock. Maybe it's happening like that in his head. Maybe it's that real for him. Shit... 

I see tears escape his closed eyes, and even without looking, he's licking the blade and only the blade. I can feel exactly where it is, wet now with his spit. 

I look back down to see him grasping his own cock and pulling and twisting down while he laps at my silver dagger. 

I don't know how long it goes on. Time seems to stretch. I don't know how I'm still standing. I think the intent of Mulder's fire-tongue, soft and reverent on my cock, must be what's holding me up. 

The sounds he's making, unconscious little whimpering noises while he shakes and licks my cock blade...I can't help that I've started moving against his face, pushing my cock into his stroking tongue, meeting his rhythm, slicing him gently. 

He must have let go of his cock, because I feel both hands slowly reaching up my thighs to my hips, lingering there for a few moments to feel the movement of the muscles beneath the hot skin. Then he's pulling his mouth away slightly, and I growl in protest. But he's just pulling my jeans and underwear the rest of the way down, letting me step out of them, and tossing them aside. 

For the first time since it started, he raises his eyes to mine. I flinch, it feels so bad and so damned good both at once. He pushes his hand up under my T-shirt, sliding up my torso. I take his lead and rip it off over my head, pulling it down and off my prosthetic, now as naked as he is. 

He blinks, shivering, and takes in my nipple rings, eyes going darker and hooded. Then he lowers his attention back down to my cock, taking it just under the head in his hand, and he leans forward and flicks the ring with his tongue. 

I cry out, feeling myself ooze precum for him. He moans and flicks it again, this time over and over, mercilessly attacking the piercing and moving it back and forth. He holds my cock still for it and moves his fast little tongue, tilting his head this way and that. I watch his eyes roll shut and I'm making a fist at my side so hard I'm leaving bloody crescent marks. 

Then he sucks on it. Fuck, he works his mouth on the very, very tip of my dick, pulling and tugging on the ring through my flesh. I gasp, sipping the air in at the sudden pain of it. And another rush of arousal floods Mulder's lips with precum. 

He groans, eyes blissfully shut, and takes his heavy cock in his hand again, thumbing hard under the head while he takes a little more of my cock into his mouth, the head not even all the way in, distending his lips while he suckles the ring. 

I groan loudly, wanting to slam my dick to the back of his throat with one unambiguous stab. But Mulder's on his own time and he groans long and high as he sinks just one more inch into his mouth. He's beyond the ring now, though. I can feel it scraping along the back of his tongue and his lips sucking me in deeper, his head bobbing now a little on my painfully hard cock. 

He's trembling hard. I don't know if it's from fear, lust, a little bit of revulsion, or maybe all of those things. He seems transported, crying while he fits his mouth further down on me and I feel the resistance, halfway in. 

Suddenly, he gags, and I instinctively start to pull out. He comes up gasping, mouth blushed and stretched. But he releases his cock and wraps his arm around my hips, pulling me in close again. I stumble but comply. Then he takes my cock around the base, licks his lips, and starts to take me in an inch at a time until I feel the resistance of his throat again. Except he's not stopping. He breathes hard and scared through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut tight, and presses forward, and I feel myself start to squeeze into his throat. 

He gags again and I pull back, but this time his hand grabs my wrist and I loosen the fist I've been making. He pulls off my dick enough to get his breath, but even as I watch the tears of exertion and pain fall from under his lashes, he takes my hand and slowly places it at the back of his bobbing head, pressing it in, in what is definitely more than a subtle suggestion. 

"Oh God..." I whisper, looking down at him. 

He sucks back up my cock to the tip, turning his head, licking the end and flicking the ring. He tugs at it hard, blinking his eyes up to mine, chewing at my cockhead, biting down. 

I cry out, hissing, and he chews at the end some more, pulling roughly on the ring and moaning. 

And because I haven't moved, haven't taken the gift he's given me, he puts his hand back on mine at the back of his head and starts to push resolutely until it's halfway in again. 

He may or may not have stopped there. I don't know. Because I don't wait to find out, finally taking his hair in my fist with a growl and shoving deep down his throat. He gags again and once again I instinctively draw back. But the hand at mine on his head pushes hard, and I hear his tense breathing, feel his throat convulse on me for a moment longer, and then subside. 

God, of all the men I've been with. Of all the substandard lovers, all the disappointments or empty moments of not-quite-bliss... Of all the pseudo-dangerous men, all the leather and talk and glory-holing... 

Mulder is the dangerous one. 

Mulder loves my dagger. Licks it despite or because of fear. 

Mulder has the balls to tug at my ring. 

Mulder will get on his knees, look up into my eyes, and then bite down on my cock. 

Mulder... 

Mulder's the one. 

I grit my teeth, eyes shining with new tears, and I exert the pressure on the back of his head and start to fuck his mouth. 

His eyes roll back as I thrust inside him, piercing his throat with each long stroke. 

Tears. I'm standing there, feeling the succulent, pillowed lips stretching for me, no longer trying to suck me as I thrust over his tongue and down his throat. I'm listening to the wet sounds of his mouth engulfing me, of his tiny sounds of pain and want. And the tears are falling unchecked, joining what remains of Mulder's pungent cum on my face. 

Too good. Too good to be true. Impossibly good. 

I look down and watch my cock disappear into Mulder's mouth while he groans. I'm breathing fast through gritted teeth, holding his head in place and thrusting my cock forward until all I can see left of it is the very thickest inch at the base, my black hairs tickling Mulder's nose. And then I do it again. 

I do it over and over and over, bruising him, his hand no longer at the back of his own head and no longer needed. I'm taking him. Sliding the blade along his fat bottom lip just like he wants. Shoving the ring he tortured down his throat. 

It's building. It has to end. I can't take it any more. His whining moans are tugging at my balls. His helpless tongue, lying flat for my fuck...too much. 

I grip his head, pull it into my body, let my head fall back on my shoulders, and come into him. 

And I say his name. 

"Mulder," I grunt, grinding into him. "Mulder," I sigh, stabbing it down his throat. "God, Mulder..." as the last of my cum coats his battered throat and then his pliant mouth and lips as I pull out. 

And then whatever was holding me up simply stops, and I stagger backward, running into the dresser behind me, leaning on it so that I don't sink to the floor. 

I look down, breathing hard, and I see Mulder's face, dripping with my cum. Marked. 

I've never gotten to see that before. 

Before that really clicks, I see the flurry of Mulder's hand between his legs. He's beating at his still-hard, very ready cock. And when I lift my gaze to his face again, I see that he's still looking at my cock, now half-hard and wet from his mouth. His eyes are intent, his lips parted, his breath quick. He's on his knees and one hand in front of me and jerking off while staring at my dick. 

I push off the dresser, taking a step in to him again, and his eyes follow the bounce of my flagging erection. He bites his lip and I watch, enthralled, as he starts to shoot his cum all over the motel carpet, whining and jerking, one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. 

When he's done, he falls forward, catching himself on both hands, ribs expanding and contracting with his breath while he recovers at my feet. 

.......... 

I pant there on my hands and knees at Krycek's feet, and I feel like I could stay here forever. Just curl up in a ball in the wet spot and pass out. I don't care what anyone says about Krycek from here on out. There has GOT to be something redeemable in there because nothing could feel that fucking transcendant and not have some good in it. 

I lift my face, mouth still open and sucking air, and lick a little more of his cum off my tingling bottom lip. I see his bare legs, covered with sweat, and slowly follow them up with my sleepy eyes, stopping momentarily at his hanging dick, ring gleaming with cum and spit...yum...then continuing up to his face. 

His eyes are heavy-lidded and wet, cheeks damp with tears and sweat. His mouth is open, his lip bleeding just slightly, as he breathes hard down in my direction. I can't help but give him a sedated smile. He doesn't return it, just breathing a little harder, and I drop my face again, starting to pull myself to my feet. 

Krycek moves to the side, giving me room, and I stand up, still licking the remains of him off my lips. I can't believe how fucking good I feel. I look at him again, and he's the absolute most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And everything seems so much simpler, even though part of me knows it'll be complicated again when I come down. Right now, everything's just really fucking good. 

"I'm gonna-" I start, then cough on my swollen throat. That ring played hell all the way down and all the way up. And all the way down and all the way up...and all the way down and all the way up. I sigh, clear my sore throat carefully, then start again much more quietly. "I'm gonna get in the shower." Krycek just stares at me and swallows. "Order another pizza," I add. "I'm fucking starved." He licks his bleeding lip and nods, and I gotta give him another fuck-stupid grin before weaving my way into the bathroom. 

I catch my own reflection in the mirror and gasp. I've never seen myself look like this before. Eyes dark and drugged, hair sweaty and spiked from where he held onto it, lips red and swollen, and Krycek's cum glistening in slick trails all around my mouth. I let out a soft, deep, painful laugh and turn on the shower. 

I step into the hot water feeling languid and weak, and wash off the sweat and my cum and the carpet fibers that are sticking to it all. It's not that I don't want to smell him on me. Far from it. But most of the stink on me is me, and that I can do without. Plus that carpet's itchy. 

I get myself clean and grab a towel, then realize I didn't bring any clothes in with me. Oh well. Not like he hasn't seen it all now. I step out of the bathroom, scrubbing my hair dry, naked and still tingling. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing a pair of black briefs. 

"Order that pizza?" I ask him, clearing my throat again. It's pretty fucked up. I kinda like it. 

"Yeah," he answers, arching his brows. He looks so young when he does that. Almost sweet. 

Shit, I'm in trouble here. 

I know it's the just the endorphin rush, the total fuck-drunk high of the absolute best sexual experience of my life, but it's impossible not to just feel really good right now. I try to remind myself I have to be somewhat careful, even though I've decided to trust him. I try to remind myself I don't really even know him, and might not even end up liking him. But right now, all I can feel is relaxed and happy. And hungry. MAN am I starved. And thirsty. 

"Did you happen to order anything to drink?" I ask him, going to the wad of discarded clothing on the floor, his and mine entangled, and extracting my underwear. I step into them and pull them up, and decide I don't need anything more than that if he doesn't. Of course, one of us will have to throw on jeans when the pizza gets here. I think I'll make Krycek pay for this one. 

"Um, no," he answers, frowning, and I just nod. Guess I'll be putting jeans on after all and going to the vending machine. "Um," he says, licking his lips. They've stopped bleeding. I'm glad. Mouth wounds tend to heal fast, don't they? I think they do. That's good. "Mind if I..." he looks over at the open bathroom door, arching his brows. I wish he wouldn't do that. Plays hell with the part of me trying not to forget who he is. 

"No, go for it," I tell him, reaching for my jeans and yanking them free of the clothing-wad. "I'm gonna run out to the machine and grab some sodas. Whaddya want?" 

"Oh, uh...Sprite, I guess. Something without caffeine," he adds. I don't miss that his gaze drops to watch me fasten the fly of my jeans. His attention feels good. 

"Great. Be right back then." I grab up the room key and then turn back at the door. "Oh and Krycek?" 

He's standing up, ready to head for the bathroom. He stops and turns, blinking. "Yeah?" 

"You're buying." I grin, and step out the door before he can react. He's fun to tease like that. Not that it's fun to see him so worried, but I enjoy being someone around him that I've never gotten to be before. It's not until I get to the soda machine that I realize I don't even know if he likes that me. Maybe he thinks I'm a slutty little goofball now. I get four cans of pop, hissing as I told them against my bare torso, and decide he'll just have to deal with it. 

When I get back to the room, he's in the shower, and I put the sodas on the table, popping one open, and turn on the TV. I turn and see the bed covered with sweaty, wrinkled maps, papers, and file folders. I set my soda down and scrape everything up with both hands, making a sloppy pile on the floor. The smell of us wafts up from both the papers and the sheets as I work, and I take a couple of deep, satisfying breaths, remembering thrashing around and depositing those fluids. Those papers are going to hold onto that smell. Damn, talk about mixing work and pleasure. When the bed's in half-way decent shape, I pick up my soda, slurp down a long swallow, then climb on and give half-attention to an infomercial on natural pest control, still enjoying the smell of what we did...Jesus Christ what we _did_...hanging sweet in the air. 

When Krycek comes out of the bathroom, he's dressed in his black underwear and a black T-shirt. Stealth underwear. It makes me smile, and I belch one more loud one and get up to grab another soda. "Scuze me," I say, opening it and climbing back onto the bed. 

He just gives me a look, and I swear it's almost amused. Maybe I can get him to laugh, if I really try. Damn, why does that even appeal to me? Why does it even matter? 

Because I like the sound of it. 

Shit. 

There's a knock at the door, and Krycek grabs for his jeans. That's when I realize he's not wearing it. The arm. I try not to be too obvious as I look at the empty sleeve and try to see what's in it. I can't help it. I'm curious. But I don't want to make him feel weird, so I try to focus back on the pest control. Huh. Dishwasher detergent is a great ant repellant. I'll have to remember that. I get ants sometimes. 

Krycek wriggles into his jeans a hell of a lot more quickly than I could with one hand, then, looking worried, pulls his wallet out of his pocket and flips it open, thumbing out a bill one-handed, and holding it in his fingers as he slips the wallet back into his pocket. I have to admit, I'm impressed. He opens the door, and I don't miss the pizza boy's eyes trying not to go to the empty sleeve as Krycek pays him and grabs the box. I study Krycek for a reaction but don't see one. What I do see is a cold, blank expression that I've never seen him use with me. He brings the pizza in and sets it on the table, with me still watching him. He feels it and looks up, catching me, and the expression melts into the half-sad, half-scared one I've been seeing lately. Like he's afraid I'll disapprove of his reaction to the pizza boy. 

"Still hot?" I ask him, sounding light and trying to get him to lighten back up, too. 

"Yeah, think so," he answers, and I climb off the bed, muting the infomercial. I walk over and open the box, grabbing a big, gooey slice with one hand, retrieving the dripping cheese with the other. Krycek picks up a piece very deftly with one hand, supporting it with splayed fingers. I take mine over to my bed, and he does the same. I climb up and unmute the TV, then shove the pizza in my mouth, moaning. He looks over at me, then sits on the bed, scooting up against the headboard and swinging his legs up, then taking a big bite, wincing slightly as his lips crack open again. 

"We should pick up some lip balm or something," I say through a mouthful of pizza. Is it selfish of me to want that mouth in better working order? I guess it is, but hey, he wants it too. 

"Okay," he says, swallowing his bite. 

We eat and watch the infomercial some more, and sex-haze starts to clear, leaving me sleepy and full. Suddenly, it's all I can do to keep my eyes open. "Want this?" I ask him, holding out the remote. "I'm crashing." 

"No, thanks," he answers softly. He climbs off the bed and heads into the bathroom. 

I turn off the television, but leave my light, the only one on, burning until he comes back out. Once he's in bed, I turn over and ask him, "Ready?" on a yawn, holding the switch in my fingers. 

"Yeah," he answers softly, and I click off the lamp, putting us in almost total darkness. 

I nestle down into the covers, feeling more relaxed and peaceful than I can really ever remember, and before I can stop it, my mouth murmurs, "G'nite, Krycek." I instantly feel silly and hope it was too quiet for him to hear it. 

It's quiet for a few moments, then I hear a rustling from the bed next to mine and a very quiet, almost sighing, "G'nite, Mulder." I close my eyes and don't open them again until morning. 

... 

I'm awake just before the sun starts burning through the cracks in the blinds. I roll over and see him, curled up under the blankets, and sigh and turn on my back. 

I'm so scared. 

I feel like I've put my entire life in the balance over sex. But I know that's not the whole of it, that it's much more than that. That something as fundamental as the tectonic structure of the planet is shifting irrevocably and things between me and Krycek will never be the same again, no matter what happens. 

I see him now. See all of him. The trick is to keep in mind what I saw before, and not to be totally blinded by what I'm seeing now. After all, he's still the same person as he was a few weeks ago, before I ever felt his mouth on me. 

Isn't he? 

Am I? The same person, I mean? Actually, I don't think so. A few weeks ago, all the color had run out of my world. A few weeks ago, I believed I had spent the last 36 years of my life living a lie. A few weeks ago, I walked around with my loaded weapon in hand, trying to think of reasons not to fire it against my temple. Or in my mouth. I debated which would be most efficient. 

A few weeks ago, upon seeing Krycek I would have...well, done what I did. Hit first and ask relentless questions later. 

And now...I turn my head and look as I hear him snort a little in his sleep. Now I'm gonna run down to the convenience store on the corner and grab us some breakfast and some lip balm. 

I don't think I'm the same person. 

And honestly, I don't know if he is. Maybe he was always this, and I just didn't see it. Didn't get to. Didn't give him any reason or opportunity to show it to me. 

And I'm starting to wonder...if anyone ever has. 

I watch my own chest fall on a deep sigh. It's dangerous to think this way. To lose sight of just how heartless, how dangerous, how treacherous Krycek has been. But my psychological background tells me people are not, except in the rarest of circumstances, born that way. Not that a horrible childhood excuses what he's done. Not in the least. My own was no episode of Leave it to Beaver, either, and I don't go around killing people for pay. 

Except I know that's not why he does it. Yes, he gets paid to take human life, but he's part of something much more vast, much more sinister, and I'm only beginning to understand the smallest part of it. And what I want to know is, how can this man, who sucks cock like an angel, and cries when he comes, lie and manipulate and kill in cold blood like it was nothing. 

Of course, I don't know that it's nothing to him. I don't think he enjoys it, though. He seems too emotionally reactive to be one of those people for whom it feeds the darkness within. Sometimes it's the most sensitive among us who turn into the most dangerous ones, because they can't handle the pain any longer and just turn off all connection to their higher nature. From one extreme to the other. I speak from experience, actually. The times I find myself out of control, scaring myself with my anger and violent outbursts, are the times I'm in the most pain. Like a wounded animal, I strike out at anyone who comes close. 

I swallow and push the covers down, reaching for my jeans and pulling them on. He stirs and turns over, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He is, of course, frowning. 

"I'm gonna run down to the corner and pick up breakfast," I tell him, rasping. My throat's really sore today. I'll be picking up some lozenges too, I think. "Any requests?" 

He smacks his lips. "Coffee," he tells me. "Cream, no sugar." 

"Don't like it sweet?" I ask him in a suggestive tone, before realizing it's a dangerous game to make sexual innuendo with him. I don't know how he'll take it, or if he'll even get it, coming from such an unexpected source. And the real thing is, I don't know if he'll lose respect for me, think I'm just a slut who never thinks about anything but sex. 

I do, you know. Lots of other things. 

I'm nervous in the resulting silence, which feels too long and too empty, then feel an illicit shiver go through me when he responds, "Sometimes," in a voice like coal smoke. 

I swallow, and don't reply, just finding my shoes and socks and slipping into my jacket. 

At the store, I pick up some hot egg and cheese crescent rolls and a pint of orange juice, a coffee with cream, no sugar, one with both, and some lip balm and lemon throat lozenges. It's not until I'm sliding the key into the motel room door that it hits me that there's a possibility that he's not in there. My heart flips a little, even as I know I'm being ridiculous, and I turn the knob, wondering if that fear will ever not be there. I'm sighing as I enter the room balancing the drink holder in one hand, holding the bag of goodies in the other. He's seated at the table, and gets up and grabs the drinks from me just as they start to tip precariously. I flash him an involuntary grateful smile for a moment and set the bag down. 

I take my jacket off and put it over the back of my chair, then sit down and pull out my purchases. Last to come out is the lip balm, and I feel a little warm as I set it on the table in front of him. He takes it, pops the cap, and smooths some onto his lips right then, and I can't help staring at his mouth and thinking, I fucked that. A small breath escapes me, and I open my orange juice and take a long swallow. It stings a little going down, and I wonder if he keeps that cock jewelry in all the time. Is he wearing it now? What about the nipple rings? I take a surreptitious glance at his chest, and I can just make them out under the long-sleeved black turtleneck. I stifle a little grunt, feeling my dick swell just a little, and sigh at my adolescent single-mindedness. 

It used to be that I'd look at him and feel all the pain of his betrayal. All the rage over my father's death. All the frustration over him disappearing with the goods, each time I got close. 

Now my horniness seems to supercede all that and I can barely think about anything but sex when I look at him. I guess I'm kind of a simple-minded guy. All or nothing. Black or white. Not a lot of experience with gray area. And with Krycek, it's all gray. Nothing's absolute. He's not absolutely horrible, because his touch is like divine fire, and he's certainly not absolutely good, because he's lied, betrayed, manipulated, stolen, and of course, killed in cold blood. Not that anyone IS absolutely good or absolutely bad. We're all just shades of gray. I'm sure as HELL no pure white knight. After all, I'm the one who came looking for what he was offering on his knees in the dark. 

STOP thinking about SEX! I yell to my uncooperative brain. 

I shift gears, going over the information I got from the Englishman at our clandestine meeting in the shadows. The most earth-shattering bit of it being that there is a second group of aliens that might help us to destroy the colonist's plans to enslave the human race. 

My big question is, what's in it for them? I shove the last bite of breakfast cresecent into my mouth and speak with it still full, unable to wait. 

"The first thing we need to find out is, do the rebel aliens have benevolent intentions toward us." I wash it down with a healthy swig of orange juice, followed by a drink of coffee. "What do we know about them?" 

Krycek's chewing slows, and he takes a drink of his coffee, swallowing loudly. 

I go on, picking up the trash from our meal. "I mean, the old guy said they don't know anything other than that the rebels are against the colonists, but there's got to be a way to find out if they're really our friends." 

"Well," Krycek says, wadding up the rest of his sandwich in a napkin and putting it in the trashbag. "Depends on what a friend is." His voice is low, breathy. And he's not meeting my eyes. 

I stop, putting the bag down and pushing it away, clearing the space between us. Krycek doesn't look up from his hand, curled around his coffee cup. My stomach suddenly feels queasy. 

"There's something you're not telling me, isn't there." It's not a question, more of an inevitable realization. When is there not? 

He doesn't say anything, and a joyless grin cracks my face. "Of course there is." God damn it. Here we go. Back to reality, and I'm having no problems not thinking about sex. Except to feel ashamed of myself for falling so deeply under its thrall that I stopped using my brain. I decide that if he can hide shit from me, I can use all the tools in my arsenal, too. I make my voice soft, feeling a twinge of guilt, and ask him quietly, "Alex?" 

His gasp is almost painful to hear, and the look he pins me with does seriously threaten my cool composure. I swallow back any feelings of guilt, and make my face expressionless, waiting. "Well?" 

His voice is tight. "Well what?" His expression is suddenly very guarded, eyes dull with hurt. And maybe shame. Unless it's all for show. 

"What are you not telling me about the rebels?" 

He looks down at the table, fingers gripping his cup tightly. "What do you want to know?" 

I sigh, firming my jaw. "I want to know if the rebels are friendly." Cold, measured, nothing of friendship in my voice, now. 

He swallows. "If intercepting colonists' abduction scenarios and killing the abductees in order to sabotage the colonists' experiments is friendly," he says, firming his lips tightly afterward, glancing at me just once for a split second, then returning his gaze to the table. 

I exhale in shock. "What?" I breathe. 

He sighs heavily, then lifts his eyes to meet mine, head still slightly bowed. "They've been intercepting group abductions and killing the abductees in order to sabotage the colonist's attempts to conduct their tests and prepare for colonization." 

"And this is who I'm supposed to ally with?" I yell, bolting up from the table. "These are the beings I'm supposed to be FRIENDS with?" I put special emphasis on the word, feeling sick in my gut. "And just when were you planning on telling me this, Krycek?" I yell at him, sweeping my hand across the table and knocking our breakfast remains to the floor. 

He jerks back in his chair, obviously startled by my outburst and stares up at me. His answer is little more than a low breath. "As soon as you asked." 

"What?" I snap, leaning in. "Oh, so you're telling me that you didn't share this information with me last night because I didn't ASK NICELY, Krycek? That's bullshit!" I shove off from the table and stalk a few steps away, feeling the old desire to shake him, throw him, rattle the truth out of him, return. 

"You didn't ask at all, Mulder!" he answers, sounding a little angry and a little scared, both. 

I turn to see that he's standing too now. 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I hiss, hands on my hips. 

"You didn't ask!" he says again, frowning deeply. "You asked him, you didn't ask me!" 

"Oh so now you're jealous because I'm getting my questionable intel from another source?" I sneer. 

"Mulder, I-" he starts, then firms his lips and huffs out a frustrated sigh, shoving the table and stalking a few paces away in the other direction. He turns his back on me, and I watch his shoulders rise and fall with deep, fast breaths, his head bowed. 

"You knew I wanted to know!" I tell him, and I'm aware that along with anger, my voice is tight with hurt of my own. I trusted him! I made the decision to believe him, and we don't get one day without him lying to me. 

He sighs deeply, his shoulders dropping. I hear him swallow. "You're right," he says quietly. "I did." 

I firm my lips, sighing in frustration. "Then why?" I ask him, feeling the fight drain out of me, leaving tired, familiar sadness behind. "I thought..." I almost can't say it. It says too much, but it's necessary now. "I thought things were...different, now." 

He exhales through his teeth. "Mulder," he growls, then he turns around, his face showing a whole series of emotions. Anger, fear, sadness, and uppermost, frustration. "Of course they're fucking different," he says through his teeth. Then, clenching his jaw, "I didn't say anything because you didn't ask me." He grits his teeth again, then blinks and ducks his head for a minute. I just wait. "And because...he let me know that he didn't want me to." His shoulders fall again. 

I let out my breath slowly. "So you're more concerned with what he wants than with what I want." 

"No," he says without hesitation, lifting his face and looking me directly in the eyes. I can't breathe suddenly. "I care more about what you want, Mulder." He lets out a soft sigh, then drops his eyes again. "But you didn't ask me." 

I narrow my eyes, contemplating yelling at him again. But his answer was so...naked...even a bit childlike...that it gives me pause. I know he's lived in a world of absolutes, too. With strict rules that if broken could easily lead to death. I'd think he was just manipulating me, pretending not to understand the world of abstracts, where things are only suggested, and are understood at a common level. But his answer was so serious, as if his life depended on it, that I have to look deeper than that. 

I have to assume that he's been operating without a moral compass for some time now. I have no idea how long. Like a child never given safe boundaries. And in that situation, a child develops a very strict set of rules, which are never deviated from, which the child uses to order his world in order to be safe. Rules that the child sees as absolutely necessary to his survival. The kind of absolute concrete reasoning you see in Lord of the Flies, where you live by the rules, without exception, or you die. 

If Krycek's been living by that kind of concrete reasoning, it would explain why he was able to do the horrible things he did. Just as the children in Lord of the Flies. There was no other way, in their eyes, to protect their survival. Nothing but strict adherence to a code of conduct could be tolerated, or their world fell into chaos. 

And God knows, Krycek's world and mine seem to have dipped into our share of that lately. 

And evidence would suggest that Krycek has made a unilateral decision to...choose me, all of a sudden. That when there's a question, so far, his way to make the choice has been to choose what I want. 

Now, he did know that I wanted the information. But the truth of the matter is, I didn't ask him. It probably wasn't safe for either of us for him to contradict his employer right there at the meeting, so I can't blame him for that. But he could have told me afterward, on the drive home, or anytime after that while we were going over the plans. 

But he didn't. And that still pisses me off, psychological profiling aside. 

"Krycek," I tell him, breaking the silence left by my introspection. "You knew something that you knew I wanted to know." 

He looks up when I wait for his response. He looks like a beaten dog. 

"You kept it from me. That's tantamount to lying." 

He frowns deeply and sighs, looking down. 

I sigh, too, realizing that while this isn't going to be easy, all is not in any way lost, either. I reach forward and put my hand on his shoulder. 

He looks up, still frowning. 

With a gentle squeeze, I tell him, "Don't do it again." 

.......... 

I'm lying in my bed. The lights are all off. I'm not cuffed. I'm free. Mulder is sleeping in the bed next to mine, maps put away. I feel him over there, breathing. 

Everything's changed. Probably more than I even realize or know about. There's the concrete stuff: We're still infiltrating the facility, but I think Mulder intends to double cross the Brit and keep the fetus. He's putting in for his resignation. His resignation. He's leaving his life for this. For me. And it all began the moment my lips and his beautiful cock met in the dark. 

I don't know the extent that Mulder's truth and his pursuit of it will affect me. I just know it will. Over and over again. For now, the fear is less than the relief. The incredible relief that I'm out of choices. It's not up to me anymore. Whatever Mulder wants. That's my truth now. I'll give him everything, even though I feel so empty. He sees something in me. He sees past this illusion of me. He insists on makng me real. 

I turn my head on the pillow and gaze over at him in the dark. I'll die for him gladly. It's the first thing I've ever believed in my life. I finally have a faith. 

I throw the blanket off my body and sit up slowly and quietly. I just sit there for a moment, still staring at him asleep. Then I get up and walk the one step it takes to put me at his bed side. I lift the blanket away from where it's pooled at his waist and throw it down to the foot of the bed. His eyes open and he sees me above him. He doesn't speak, and neither do I, but as I crawl onto the bed over him, he spreads his legs to make room for me. Our gazes unlock as I kneel between his thighs and watch his cock come alive inside the pouch of his underwear. Just my gaze. My intention. I slip down, face close to the heat of it. I breathe it and open my mouth over him, sucking him through the cotton, going hard at his gasp, ignoring -- no, reveling -- in the sting my healing tongue feels. I peer up at him, mouth still close to his cock. He's looking down at me. I smile, looking into his dark eyes. He blinks and returns it. I lower my mouth again. I'm free. 

**END**

  
 

* * *

Post a comment  
or read posted comments on this story. 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Title:   **Stimulus**   
Author:  SandS   [email/website]   
Details:   **Standalone**  |  **NC-17**  |  **235k**  |  **10/24/07**   
Pairings:  Mulder/Krycek   
Category:  Drama   
Summary:  Life hurts. Sex soothes. Love heals.   
  
  
[top of page] 


End file.
